48 R1PR0DUCTIONS
OF mm ART
ROBERT M. HUTCHINS
WAX HOP
GEORGES ROUAULT
MILUI
GILBERT HIGHET
DOROTHY PARKER
and others
w ta? * -4 * /-',r*W(
7 arts
7 arts
no.
no. 5
64-14633
6ii.-iif.833
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E
JUt
ABOUT THE EDITOR
FERNANDO PUMA, writer, artist and critic, directed a
gallery of modem art for five years, and presented over
two New York stations the first art review programs on
radio. His book, Modern Art Looks Ahead, a history and
analysis of painting and sculpture of the last seventy-five
years, received an excellent reception in America. Also,
Love This Horizontal World, a de luxe limited edition,
was published in Paris.
Mr. Puma has exhibited his paintings in museums in
many sections of the United States the Detroit Institute
of Art, the San Francisco Museum of Art, the Santa
Barbara Museum, the Phillips Memorial Gallery, Wash-
ington, D.C., the Minneapolis Institute of Art, Univer-
sity of Illinois. His paintings are included in many dis-
tinguished collections Dr. W. R. Valentiner, Duncan
Phillips, Sheldon Cheney, Dr. MacKinley Helm, Randolph
Macon College, Dr. William Carlos Williams, Miss E.
Hammond.
He has spent two and a half years traveling, painting
and writing, in sixteen countries in Europe and the Near
East. During September, 1949, an exhibition of his work
was presented at the Gallery Mai in Paris. For the past
year he has been residing in Paris, working on a novel.
7ARTI
DANCE
MUSIC
THEATRE
PAINTING
SCULPTURE
LITERATURE
ARCHITECTURE
7 ARTS
NUMBER 3
edited by
FERNANDO PUMA
DANCE
MUSIC
THEATRE
PAINTING
SCULPTURE
LITERATURE
ARCHITECTURE
THE FALCON'S IMS
IHDUHU1US COLORADO
Copyright, 1955, by Max Brod
Copyright, 1955, by Gottfried Von Einem
Copyright, 1955, by Howard Carroll
Copyright, 1955, by Merce Cunningham
Copyright, 1955, by Henry Miller
Copyright, 1955, by Theodore Roetke
Copyright, 1955, by Fernando Puma
Copyright, 1955, by Dorothy Parker
Copyright, 1955, by Lee Richard Hayman
Copyright, 1955, by Robert M. Hutchins
Copyright, 1955, by Suzanne Labln
Copyright, 1955, by Jerome Mellquist
Copyright, 1955, by Gilbert Highet
Copyright, 1955, by Madame Basserman
Copyright 1955 by THE FALCON'S WINS KE& AH rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form
without written permission from the publisher except for purposes of
quotation in a review printed In a newspaper or magazine
library of Congress Catalogue No. 53-7456
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE COLONIAL PRESS INC.
The editor makes Ms grateful acknowledgment
to all galleries whose cooperation in supplying
photographs for reproduction enhance this book.
He also wishes to thank the artists, photographers,
dancers, and architects who have contributed to
this collection.
GALLERIES: Paris Maeght, Louis Carre,
Louise Leiris, Drouant-David, de France, D.
Mouradian & Vallotton, Berggruen, La Hune,
Stiebel, Carmine; New York Curt Valentin,
Knoedler, Pierre Matisse, Jean Dufresne.
A
C
K
N
O
w
L
E
D
G
M
E
N
T
c
o
N
T
E
N
T
ARTICLES
FOREWORD ariii
MAX BROD
Notes on Kafka 1
GEORGES ROUAULT
The Painter's Rights in His Work 14
JAMES T. FARRELL
On the Function of the Novel 25
GOTTFRIED VON EINEM
The Salzburg Festival 41
HOWARD CARROLL
Parabolas 53
THEODORE ROSZAK
Problems o Modern Sculpture 58
MERGE CUNNINGHAM
The Impermanent Art 69
HENRY MILLER
When I Reach for My Revolver 78
SIGFRIED GBEDION
The State of Contemporary Architecture 103
THEODORE ROETKE
A Rouse for Stevens
CONTENTS
FERNANDO PUMA
The Creato/s Challenge 118
DOROTHY PARKER
Hollywood, The Land I Won't Return To 130
LEE RICHARD HAYMAN
Feared and the Fearful 141
ROBERT M. HUTCH1NS
Education: Has It a Future? 144
SUZANNE LABIN
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist? 155
JEROME MELLQUIST
Transformers of Taste 169
GILBERT HIGHET
Kitsch 182
FERNANDO PUMA
Creators of the Past 190
WASHINGTON IRVING
The Mutability of Literature 192
OSCAR WILDE
Lecture to Art Students 206
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
Concerning Truth and the Appearance of Truth
in Works of Art 217
ALBERT BASSERMANN
Do You Know Albert Bassermann? 232
REPRODUCTIONS
EDGAR DEGAS Portrait
GEORGES BRAQUE StiU Life
GEORGES ROUAULT
JACQUES VILLON
AMEDEO MODIGLIANI
PABLO PICASSO
MARC CHAGALL
HENRI MATISSE
ANDRE MASSON
MARCEL GROMAIRE
PABLO PICASSO
MUSIC
JOHNNY FRIEDLAENDER
GOMERY
PAUL KLEE
GEORGES BRAQUE
PIERRE BONNARD
ROGER DE LA FRESNAYE
JULES PASCIN
V. KASIULIS
MICHAEL ARAM
HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC
CONTENTS
Christ Head
My Brother Marcel Duchamp
Cariatide
Mother and Child
The Artist's Inspiration
Vase Et Grenades
The Artist's Sons
Three Nudes in, a Landscape
The Artist and the Model
Ida
The Woman and the Cat
Man and Horse
Harlequin on a Bridge
La Femme a la Toilette
Vottard
Man with Pipe
Model
The Model
Mother and Child
The Passenger
MARC CHAGALL
DANY
CLAVE
RAYMOND GUERRIER
Wedding Under the Canopy
Flowers
Gargantua
Vue of Paris
xi
CONTENTS
PIGNON
JACQUES LIPCHITZ
HENRI MATISSE
MARINO MARINI
The Man and the Child
Sketch for Sacrifice
Self Portrait
Boy with Two Horses
HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC
MAURICE UTRELLO
RAOUL DUFY
MARCELLO MASCHERINI
THEODORE ROSZAK
UMBERTO MASTROIANNI
MORLEY TROMAN
HENRI LAURENS
H. HENGHES
JOSE DE CREEFT
AMEDEO MODIGLIANI
HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON
FERNANDO PUMA
ROGER DE LA FRESNAYE
ERNST HAAS
MERGE CUNNINGHAM
Yvette Guilbert
Rue Mont-Cenis,
Maison de Berlioz
Interior
Man and Horse
Skylark
Woman
Embrace
Myrmidia
Torso
Voluptas
Head
Georges Rouault
Dancer at Rest
Man with Pipe
Positano
Photo by Gerda Peterich
The Acropolis, Athens
CHARLES EDOUARD LE CORBUSIER
Marseilles Building
*fi
FOREWORD
In Europe there is, in spite of governmental strife and
economic difficulty, still a deep respect for the man of
broad interests, the dilettante, with overlapping but
distinct abilities. Europeans feel life is richer and more
exhilarating if people are multi-faceted or bi-lingual
or vari-talented. The Humanistic Man must be nour-
ished in America. Unfortunately, the -broad approach
to life is curtailed after college. We have become mas-
ters of turning the screw. The age of specialization
suffocates joie de vivre. It is much better to acquaint
oneself with many interests, a fan-wise spread for in-
tellectual development.
One basic purpose behind 7 Arts is the interrelation
of the arts. How, for example, does the knowledge of
the movements in the dance help a person in litera-
ture; or the appreciation of a texture or color in paint-
ing help a person to comprehend theatre? Why be
aware of Aristotelian thoughts if you are a sculptor?
Why notice the construction of Chartres if you com-
pose music? It is necessary for the great creator to
move afield. Rotation of crops is good for the soil and
crops; and an awareness and understanding of all the
arts helps the artist to surmount problems and to em-
brace his own art more graciously perhaps contribute
on a monumental level.
There are those creators who feel that "art for art's
sake" is enough, that to pile up books in their studio
xiii
Foreword
and play their compositions for their close friends is
sufficient Even if an artist is economically secure, he
receives greater pleasure if he offers his art to the
world and Ends new friends, or incurs new enemies.
Art is loving, and loving is giving and sharing. To
encompass a world, to entertain, to stimulate, the cre-
ative artist knows this urge. The reaction works both
ways and sparks creativity. By showing his children
to the public, the artist tests their strength, their
originality, their longevity, and their contribution to
the alert audience. Somehow art loses its virility and
importance if it stays close to the bosom of the creator,
hiding in the shadow of security. Today the creator
cannot ignore or overlook the creations of his fellows.
A song becomes more beautiful and meaningful if the
composer uses many of the undulating possibilities
and contrapuntal activities that are current in other
arts. A song becomes richer and more resilient if
tested by people time. Slowly, slowly the dissonance
becomes consonance for an accumulation of audiences
in space, over the years.
As for the millions of students in the various arts in
America, it is important to blend points-of-view and
interweave the rarities and strangeness. It is important
to notice the contrasts and similarity. Art is not a glass
ball sitting on top of a pyramid. The student must be
fired with imagination and learn valued techniques.
To be aware, to be aware, that is living! Certainly the
first step for creating. Art cannot exist in isolation. The
creator expresses his common touch with the more
sensitive. The fruit of art once tasted becomes a lust,
never to be sated. And I maintain that the great ere-
riv
Foreword
ator is thoroughly familiar with the experiences and
touchstones of all the arts.
The audience has its returns too. The returns are
plentiful. People grind out an existence. They make a
living and squeeze in a few moments of pleasure, like
a two-week summer vacation. The pressures of ardu-
ous work are counteracted by eating, sleeping and en-
joying. One side of life can be the understanding of
the arts. There is within man a subconscious reaffiraia-
tion of religion. I feel that the arts awaken it. It is
better to walk along the streets and see the tops of
buildings, feel the mystery and life under the water,
develop the individual to choose lovely homes and
clothes. If we can agree that wars are uncivilized, if
we can agree that wars gain people little, and if we
can agree conversely that education can bring more
tranquility and insight to a nation, then naturally
enlightenment and enjoyment of the arts will bring hap-
piness and completeness. In time this may satisfy
mankind and mirror the folly of his violent aggressive-
ness. Perhaps this is wishful thinking. Still dreams
make up a great part of our living. It is through
dreams that people are inspired and from them that
creations evolve. Thus a creator can change his dreams
into actuality; and an audience can find spiritual help
and strength in art and reap a deeper, clearer, helthier
way of life.
7 Arts has become a necessity. The thoughtful arti-
cles and essays written by the creators in each field
give one a chance to gather facts and fancy from
doers in the arts, not talkers. Americans are extremely
disturbed by the insecurities of living and by the fears
xv
Foreword
of possible wars. These awful tensions may be eased
by finding some answers in creativity. It is reaching
toward a balanced life which enables 7 Arts to con-
tinue to grow, satisfying old admirers and attracting
new believers in the eternity of the arts.
Fernando Puma
Paris, France
xvi
MAX BROD was born in 1884
in Prague. His books Tycho
Brakes Way to God, The Mas-
ter, Galilei in Captivity have
been translated into many
languages. Now living in
Israel, he writes and lectures.
Mr. Erodes dramatization of
Kafka's Castle has been per-
formed in Germany, Switzer-
land, Sweden and Holland.
Notes on Kafka
For several decades I have been conducting two cam-
paigns simultaneously in the name of my late friend
Franz Kafka; the first for literary recognition of his
work. In the beginning very little headway was made.
After Kafka's untimely death thirty years ago (Kafka
died on June , 1924, only forty-one years of age) it
seemed almost impossible to find a publisher for the
unfinished novels he left behind, a fact which sounds
incredible today. Whenever I did find someone, he
inevitably would give up no sooner than he started, so
that almost every one of the volumes in first edition
had to be released by a different publishing house.
During his productive lifetime, Kafka had only a few
short stories and novels published in unobstrusive
looking little booklets. Today his entire literary output,
printed while he was alive, is condensed in a single
1
Max Brod
volume. In reality, the complete works of Kafka will
consist of ten to eleven volumes. The three great
novels: Amerika, The Trial and The Castle, which es-
tablished his success, were released through my efforts,
after his death. This was against my friend's wishes.
The motivating force that prompted my decision to
disregard these wishes was because of my great ad-
miration for his achievements. Furthermore, Kafka's
frame of mind during the last years of his Me was
considerably brighter and more hopeful than ever
before. The note left to me, asking me to destroy all
of his literary remains, was written during one of his
earlier periods, periods completely overshadowed by
despair. However, I accepted full responsibility for all
of Kafka's publications after his death. Thus a literary
fate was shaped which had its peculiarities. There may
be a time in the future when more light will be shed
on this matter. At first I met with much hostility. But
I determinedly pursued my chosen path. Today I find
that my efforts have been rewarded to an even greater
extent than I had dared anticipate. First his books were
published in Germany. Then Kafka's books were trans-
lated and released in France, Italy, England and the
United States. And with the exception of the iron cur-
tain countries, including the city of his birth, Prague,
where all of his books are banned, he is celebrated all
over the free world as one of the greatest representa-
tives of our century. That much about my first cam-
paignfor Kafka's recognition in the literary world.
My second campaign was to gain true understanding
and acknowledgment of the author's significance. This
has been successful. Generally Kafka is looked upon
as an artist who persistently painted lif e in tibe gloom-
2
Notes on Kafka
lest, darkest shades imaginable reflecting the anxiety
of present-day mankind. Fear, loneliness and the in-
escapable imprisonment of the soul, these are said to
be the only motives of his work. This conception I find
entirely wrong.
Kafka lived before the age of dictatorship and the
atomic bomb, before the apocalypse of enslaved in-
dividualism. But he anticipated impending terror and
predicted it with ominous clairvoyancy. That explains
the stifling, depressing and ghostly atmosphere that
drifts through the pages of his novels. And this very
sense of strange foreboding, the ghostly premonition
of Kafka's prophesies, which have to a great degree-
come true, seem to be the most plausible explanation
for the powerful impact made on a large reading pub-
lic. This astonishing fact was again demonstrated
during performances of my dramatization of Kafka's
Castle which played in Berlin and many other cities
in Europe. Events of time were "caught in the act" by
Franz Kafka. The bad conscience was stirred. Kafka's
warning to the world had fallen on deaf ears. Human-
ity had continued to walk along the wrong road, the
road of indifference. Others believe it is the Nihilism
which brought about the powerful effect. Is Kafka
then an author of decadence, of inescapable despair,
who sees no heaven and no moral justice? Has he
nothing left to cling to except the sacrifice of the ego
to damnation and death? Is Kafka then to be placed
alongside Satre and Heidegger? It is this which I so
strongly negate in my second campaign. Of course, I
realize the motive of immense suffering, the motive
of fear gains through Kafka's interpretation, a particu-
larly penetrating poetic form. But I will not agree with
3
Max Brod
those who persistently look at Kafka as a man posses-
sed only by grief and sorrow a man whose every
thought was dominated by his fixation of erring man-
kind. \Ete has even been accused as^sdiizophrenic
visionary striving to proclaim the world a place ^in-
habited by demons. And finally, as someone said, he
wus^a trailblazer for the devfljmdjneacffo^
gf joutiine. This is a statement, which in the light oi
his true characteristics of generosity, kindness and
deep concern for the fate of humanity, seems espe-
cially grotesque.
In order to really grasp Kafka's writing in its entire-
ness, one must recognize his masterful presentation oi
hopelessness and frightening emptiness of dangerous
delusion. At the same time one must clearly see a ray
of light breaking through, the indication of hope, a
finger pointing towards salvation.
Kafka created a world of terror and anxiety. In this
respect he is a kindred soul to the "poets maudits/'
the "damned 7 " of decadence, like Edgar Allen Poe ?
Baudelaire, E. Th. A. Hoffmann. But it is character-
istic of Kafka that he has no intentions of remaining in
this world of terror, He tries with all his might to break
away. The direction he was seeking could best be
described with the following words:
Godless void of our days, out of this state of paralyzed
sire to adjust voluntarily is mocked and thwarted.**
TTie^stSiggl^^ moves
in a world somewhat similar to Poe's. But he doesn't
want any part of it. He feels utterly uncomfortable and
strange there. And that is the main point. Kafka re-
volts against the world of decay and deterioration. He
4
Notes on Kafka
wants to escape the world o horror and torture, the
jury and malicious distortion of justice, the coldness,
the loneliness. He wants to get away from all that sur-
rounds him and torments him. He accuses the world of
nightmares, and protests loudly against it He protests
against the conscienceless world. In the midst of a
tumbling fagade of scorn, Kafka never stopped to
search for his isle of liberty, the continent of his
dreams, where everyone could find peace of mind and
happiness in his work. In his imaginative novel Amer-
ika, he describes this search with touching sensitivity.
Caught in chaotic confusion, he gropes for peace for
titie individual. He looks for God.
These axe the things so often heedlessly overlooked.
Let him speak for himself for a minute, and confess his
faith and belief in God in his own words: "When you
drift along blindly floating through tepid air, arms
extending sideways like wings, observe your surround-
ings in but a fleeting state of semi-consciousness. You
will, one day, miss 'the carriage" as it drives past you.
But when you remain steadfast, let your glance be
penetrating, then nothing can mislead you. There is
no distance really, but only the strength of your well
directed glance. Then you will look into the remote
space from whence 'the carriage* will appear, rolling
along, increasing in size as it draws closer. Suddenly it
stops in front of you. It holds the promise of fulfill-
ment. You will recline on its cushioned bench like a
child, trusting it to carry you through storm and night
Could anyone more eloquently express his senti-
ments? He says he is waiting for the merciful "travel
carriage" to come along trusting salvation to carry
him through storm and night. It is everybody's duty
5
Max Brod
to become worthy of God's graciousness by making
use of hisjisnjgjs, by avoiding the "fleeting state of
semi-consciousness" and forcefully applying the "well
directed glance."
I recognize the angel choir of Goethe's Faust in
Kafka's work as they sing: "Those who make the
aspired effort will be saved." With utmost clarity
Kafka expresses his convictions. He says: "There is
only the goal itself. What we refer to as the road is
nothing but hesitation. The obstacle that separates us
from the goal is the materialistic world. There is only
a spiritual world . . . what we call the material world
is the evil of the spiritual world. Before a strong glare
of light the world can dissolve. Before weak eyes she
will harden. Before still weaker eyes she will show her
fists. It is up to us. It is our own fault if we let a deceit-
ful material world lead us astray." Kafka urges all to
overcome the material world. He reminds his fellow-
men as well as himself of the things which matter most
when he writes the following words in his diary: "I
still get occasional satisfaction out of my work, but
happiness only if I can lift the world towards pureness,
.truth and immutability.' 7
Kafka's living image of the world in which he tries
to improve everything and lift men towards the ab-
solute pure appears often in his Paris diary. I went
with Kafka to Paris, for two short visits (1910-1911).
Both of us kept careful diaries. I published his com-
plete diary in 1951 under the title Tagebucher. I had
released fragments of it at an earlier date. Of course,
there is a lot about Kafka in my own which I will
publish at some future date. It is characteristic of
Kafka that, of all the museums in Paris, he loved the
6
Notes on Kafka
Mus6e Carnavalet best of all. This is the museum of
the French Revolution. There time and again he would
stop in front of one picture, which showed Voltaire
getting out of bed, and, while still in the process of
dressing, eagerly dictating a letter to his secretary.
"What expression of energy in his glance, and in the
movement of his hand!" I can still hear Kafka whisper
this admiringly. And I see the old painting distinctly
before me. I hope this interesting museum still stands
on the same old spot, and that this special portrait of
Voltaire is still there. When one looks at it one realizes
that Kafka was far removed from hopelessness. On
the contrary, he felt drawn to man like Voltaire, a
fighter for justice and freedom. There is a great dis-
tance separating Voltaire's somewhat resigned pessi-
mism and Kafka's humble, melancholic religiousness.
However, there are points of similarity between these
two philosophies of life. I learned this when Kafka
encountered the portrait of Voltaire. He said, "Love
the true nature of man." These are very positive words
from the lips of an author who supposedly never took
anything but a negative view of Me.
One is apt to forget too easily, that Kafka, although
the period of his productiveness was sadly brief, did
not remain the same person. He underwent a mighty
transformation. One looks upon him too frequently as
a static being not as a growing one. The three great
novels could be considered as the symbolic stages
along the way. The aphorisms and diaries run parallel
and express very clearly what his novels, under the
pressure of objective-creative formation, must leave
unsaid. The first novel Amerika describes a young
man, misled, who gets caught time and again in the
7
Max Brod
current of evil. The youth's genuineness and naivety
saves Mm from filth. Karl Rossman, the young Ameri-
can pilgrim, is actually a picture of virtue. This pure-
ness is one of the most lovable reflections of Kafka's
mind and somewhat related to Dickers characteriza-
tions.
After calling this bright creature to life, the pendu-
lum of creation swings into the opposite direction
into the darkest night Next to Kafka's portrayal of the
energetic boy, endowed with unfailing judgment for
what is right, stands Josef K., faltering and tortured
by a multitude of doubts. In Amerika almost only the
lighter side of Kafka's soul was revealed. The Trial
almost exclusively reveals the opposite. Thus both
books are a one-sided representation. One white, the
other black. One must try not to lose sight of the thing
that speaks for K's defense. It is the conscience. For
in spite of his wantonness in spite of the fleetness, "a
fleeting state of semi-consciousness/* the man from
The Trial remains the man of conscience. He is sen-
tenced. He realizes his mistakes and repents. Josef K.
passes judgment on himself. The gloomy execution
signifies suicide. Looking at it that way the hero of
the novel The Trial loses much of his unpleasant in-
consistency. This very unpleasantness is the cause of
his pain and cause for his destruction.
Perhaps that is why Kafka wrote The Castle. He
gave the leading character the same name, the auto-
biographical initial K., to suggest that here a higher
level of maturity was reached by the same individual.
Amerika presents the thesis (the pure unspoiled
being) and The Trial presents the antithesis (the
depraved being, painstakingly struggling for his van-
8
Notes on Kafka
isfaing purity). The Castle, Kafka's last great work,
presents the synthesis the summary of Ms life, in
which tihe contradictions annul each other. They
united as a whole to rise to greater height. This rise
is also felt in the underlying humor which is only
intimated in the otter two novels* K. from The Castle
is neither a pure simpleton like Karl Rossman nor a
lost soul like Josef K, from The Trial. He is rather a
combination of both, who has learned from experience*
He takes his fate bravely in hand. He has a modest
objective in mind and holds fast to it He wants to
start his own family, settle down, be part of a com-
munity and make a decent living. He wants to work
honestly, conquer his inner conflicts; and he is shat-
tered by the external resistance of a hard and inhuman
world, rather than by Ms own insufficiency. Although
Kafka was much too modest to be affirmative, there
are definite tendencies in that direction. These tenden-
cies would have developed into Mghly positive images
in further creations if illness and death had not over-
come him. K. in The Castle is by far the most mascu-
line figure Kafka ever created. He faces his destiny and
is crushed by it. Because of Ms courage he has our
sympathy, which we are tempted to withhold from the
lax, slack and undecided Josef K. from The Trial. The
Castle, written close to the end of Kafka's poetic activ-
ity, is Ms strongest, most colorful and significant work.
In The Trial the hero is passive. In The Castle he is
active and dynamic. In The Trial Josef K. withdraws
from human community. And iMs figure of the "bach-
elor/' as obvious by Ms first book Betrachtungen,
looms like a frightening image. It is Ms negative in-
carnation, the family man, surrounded by many dhil-
9
Max Brod
dren. (A trait which those who look upon Kafka as
decadent never take into consideration at all.) The
hero of the novel The Castle is sociable, he strives
towards marriage. He wants to cultivate roots and
wants his work to be accepted. He has found his way
back to an active life. Even before the curtain rises,
one can point out the difference between these two
novels. In The Trial the hero is in continuous flight
from the superior court, using all his strength and
energy in search for the road leading to the castle.
Watching his efforts, one is reminded of the legendary
cj^ac^^ wander-
ings, looks for the 3vay_to_ffie^"casHe for rescue to
Montsalyatsch. Parcifal, who had alreac^Been in Be
castle, was turned out, and spends decades in the effort
to find his way back. But like a magic spell the way
was blocked to him. During a very beautiful perform-
ance of Parcifal several years ago, I suddenly saw the
analogy between these two great creations. (In both
against
the unknown household regulation of the citadel, re-
^ ^ despetaf e^ Jiruit-
_
Igssjgorts to find their way back. Finally, mercy. Kafka
wanted""^^ mercy was only
bestowed on him on his deathbed. The hero of The
Castle is granted permission to reside in the castle at
last, but for reasons of mercy, not for reasons of justice.
Kafka never completed his novel. StiU from conversa-
tions with him, I know how he wanted it to end.
'Ih&~-d3^^
jion of the ^
I LgJL a S e ..suggfljoous-JThe novel
10
Notes on Kafka
remains the fragment. The play should and must be a
firmly constructed entity. It must be complete within
itself. I daresay that after one witnessed the drama,
one can read the novel and recognize certain connec-
tions which did not seem coherent before. The drama
might be a key to the novel. But this is not the only
sense of a dramatization. Whether a dramatization is
successful, can only be determined by an actual per-
formance. I know Pol Quentin is preparing a produc-
tion of my dramatization of Kafka's Castle in Paris.
How would Kafka himself accept this posthumous
triumph of his genius? (The motto of his life was: re-
main^
trusive in behavior, he never spoke in a loud voice
s7 Then with surprising vigor, an abundance
of ideas would burst out of him, which made you sense
the enormous wealth of still unformed thoughts and
characters that this quiet man carried within him.
Never since have I experienced such nimble, spontane-
ous imagination.
At this point I should like to describe the physical
appearance of my friend. He was tall, slim and slightly
bent forward. His eyes were bold and sparkling gray.
His complexion was tanned and his hair pitch black.
A friendly, polite smile showed his beautiful teeth. His
suits were dark gray or navy and always neatly chosen
and in good taste. Thus he stands before me, in infinite
kindness. He, who in his work accused himself of un-
kindness, thought of himself as too indifferent and
not loving enough, was one of the most anxiously
concerned friends and fellow creatures.
11
Max Brod
His life's companion, Dora Dymant, once told me
How during a stroll through the city park of Steglitz
they found a tearful little girl. She was crying because
she had lost her doll. Kafka tried to console the young-
ster, but to no avail. Finally the poet said: "Your doll
isn't lost at all ... she only went on a trip. I saw her
and spoke to her a little while ago. She promised me
definitely to write to you." The little girl stopped cry-
ing. The next day Kafka actually brought the letter,
in which the doll told me about her travel adventures.
A real doU correspondence developed out of this and
continued for weeks. It came to a halt only when the
ailing writer had to change his residence. But even
at the end, in midst of all the turmoil of illness, he did
not forget to leave a new doll for the child. He claimed
it to be the old, lost one, which had undergone certain
physical changes due to her experiences in foreign
countries. Doesn't this atmosphere of kindness and
roguish inventiveness recall the atmosphere of Heb-
bels Rheinischen Hausfreund, a book which Kafka,
next to Claudius' Wandsbecker Boten, loved most of
all? Here (and not in the sinister mysteries of Edgar
Allan Poe) he felt at home. This was the direction into
which he developed or strove to develop. Had he
stayed alive, we would have probably witnessed un-
expected changes in his imaginative faculties. Perhaps
he would have stopped writing entirely, and all of his
creative passions would have found fulfillment in a
life dedicated to God. Much of what I heard from his
lips, points in that direction. However, it is futile to
ponder about these secrets.
The following story seems most characteristic of
him. At the time of the .release of a memorial book, a
12
Notes on Kafka
former schoolmate of his was asked to relate certain
memories of him from the past. The prominent man,
who had shared the same school bench with him for
eight years, was honest enough to reply: "All I can
remember is this one thing. Throughout that entire
time, there was nothing to be said about Kafka. No
attention was ever drawn to him."
That, which seems nothing in the eyes of men, may,
in the eyes of God be all important Or to reverse it,
what in the eyes of men assumes gigantic proportions
(like Kafka's posthumous fame and the misunder-
standings resulting from this world-renowned glory)
may be nothing in the eyes of God.
If we approach Kafka's work with humility, we may
approach truth and move closer to the realm of the
pure towards which he strove. This alone should be
our hope. Whatever lies beyond that does not concern
us, for it rests in the hands of a higher power.
13
GEORGES ROUAULT was
born in Paris in 1871. His
work is included in every im-
portant art collection in the
world. Mr. Rouault is dedi-
cated to the fulfillment of his
personal style in oils, water-
color, black and white. He was
Honorary Keeper of the
Musee Gustave Moreau, a
position which gave him a
small stipend and enabled him
to sustain himself until the
world became aware of Mm.
The Painter's Rights in his Work
To make this report as matter-of-fact as possible I
will only mention tbe risks and dangers to which, in
my eighty-four years of life, I have seen painters' work
exposed, and even their dignity as human beings.
These risks have become clear to me in litigation
which I myself have been forced to embark upon as
well in that where the work or reputation of certain
of my colleagues was at stake, on the death of a wife,
or in the event of marital separation, or from some
other cause.*
Some of these dangers came to my knowledge dur-
ing the time I was curator of the Gustave Moreau
* Presented by Georges Rouault for UNESCO, International
Conference of Artists, at Venice, 1952.
14
The Painter's Rights in his Work
Museum, some during the 1914 war, when I had to
put the late Ambroise VoIIard's collection into safe
storage at Saumur.
So here is the way in which, to my mind, the rights
of the artist in his work can be stated.
I The Artist's Rights in his Work before Sale
A work of art remains entirely a part of its creator
until the day that it is detached from him by a volun-
tary act, freely agreed. At this moment it enters the
commercial field, becomes a piece of property, and
may become the subject of a contract for its sale or
publication.
The artist's sovereign right to alter or destroy his
work regardless of any expert's opinion lasts at least
until the time when he surrenders it, thereby renounc-
ing it and, by the same token, renouncing his option
to keep it indefinitely, which derives from his com-
plete control over it From that moment the artist has
only certain rights which I will refer to later, but I in-
sistand there is abundance of fact to justify methat
the creator of a work of art does retain "spiritual"
rights over his works which have nothing to do with
certain unscrupulous dealers.
Until the moment he hands over his work, thus
exercising his moral right for the last time in a positive
manner, the artist cannot admit that his rights are in
any way shared or limited.
That is to say a work of art, so long as it is not de-
tached from tie person of its creator should consti-
tute an irremovable, inalienable asset, like his sketches
in his studio which are in truth his tools of trade. Sale
under distraint results in works entering the market
15
George Rouault
against the artist's wish, before he would have con-
sented to their being seen by the public, and possibly
before they have reached completion of which he is
the sole judge.
Similarly in case of divorce or separation, no matter
under what law the marriage was contracted, the
artist should not be forced to part with one fraction,
no matter how small, of his unpublished work for the
benefit of his wife, or of her heirs if she is dead.
Even if it is normal for the proceeds of a work sold
during marriage to form part of the joint estate, it is
intolerable that, if this comes to be divided, a painter
should be forced to include in it works which were in
his studio, since these are usually unfinished, or not
altogether successful or kept simply as sketches.
His right not to make his work public, which should
be exercised with no reservations or limitations, would
thus be nullified.
Even in the case of finished works, their inclusion in
the joint estate and their allocation to the wife could
result in canvases being put on the market without
the painter's express consent
To avoid all ambiguity on this vital and difficult
question in the lives of artists, it would be enough to
lay down that the work itself, canvas or manuscript,
never forms part of the joint estate, that it belongs to
the artist alone because it is in a special sense a part
of him, and that only the proceeds of works sold or
published during marriage are inheritable assets which
can be added to the joint estate under the terms of
Common Law.
The exclusion of such works from the joint estate
16
The Painters Rights in his Work
should not oblige the artist to make monetary com-
pensation for them when a division of the estate is
made.
It is virtually impossible to place an exact value on
works which may be destroyed or remain unfinished,
or even not find purchasers, assuming that the artist
should decide to publish them or put them up for sale.
Few creative artists are in a financial position to buy
back in advance, as it were, works that are destined
to be destroyed or sold "for a song."
Therefore the only solution compatible with the
artist's rights is to keep his creative work completely
separate from the joint estate.
It is the only solution by which an artist who in-
herits from his deceased wife can avoid paying succes-
sion duty on his own works, the only solution that can
avoid the absurd situation which can prevent a man
and an artist like Pierre Bonnard from the charge of
being a receiver of "stolen 7 ' goods in the form of work
of his own that he was in the course of creating.
Of course, if the artist made a gift to his wife or his
children of specified works, such gift would not be
questioned; if need be, a simple signed statement by
the donor would be sufficient proof.
II. Droits de Suite
I have said that in handing over his work the artist
can retain certain rights in it I must now state exactly
what they are. Some, like the "droit de suite" have
been established by various laws or conventions to
which the artist endeavors to refer.
I will only express one hope in the matter: that this
17
George Rouault
right hand should come to be respected in all other
countries, and particularly in the United States, just as
It is in France.
The right of the artist to retouch a work which is no
longer his property remains to be defined a com-
plicated matter, it seems to me. This complexity is
mainly due to the fact that a picture can never be
exactly and in every way compared with a musical or
literary work.
When the creative artist alters these the original
version can always continue to exist, whilst a picture
may be changed in such a way that nothing is left of
the original version but some inadequate sketches.
I can only ask the Conference to examine this deli-
cate question and to find a solution acceptable to all
which seems extremely difficult, since some styles of
painting are idiosyncratic and what may suit one artist
cannot be the rule for another.
III. Reproductions of the Artist's Work
I will here confine myself to making a few sugges-
tions about reproduction and exhibition rights.
The moral right to see that no alteration is made to
an artist's work, to safeguard each in its entirety, is
usually exercised by controlling reproduction.
Too often reproductions, particularly "color" repro-
ductions, that are complete travesties, are printed in
large quantities. And it is even true that the larger the
printing the greater is the risk of it being mediocre,
and the more difficult becomes the fight against this
mediocrity.
Inadequately armed as he often is to defend himself
18
The Painters Rights in his Work
even in his own country, once across its borders the
artist of today is generally powerless.
Nothing short of an international agreement, com-
pletely binding and carrying the certain threat of
severe penalties against publishers who do not have
reproductions passed for the press, will put an end to
practices which cheat the public by presenting them
with masterpieces that have been distorted purely for
the benefit of dishonest business men.
I know that critics are justifiably reluctant to waive
their right to quote. That is another possible subject
for consideration by the Conference, which might set
limits to the exercise of this right.
Using works of art for film purposes also raises very
delicate problems. Although the painter is not a sce-
nario-writer and cannot be asked to lay down the law
on an art that he does not practise, yet everything in
the production of a film, that might redound to the
discredit of the works reproduced or might falsify
their plastic value, ought to be submitted to him for
examination and approval.
The artist should have a right of veto over films
based upon or consisting in reproductions of his works
when his consent has not been obtained or when his
observations have not been heeded.
Provision could be made for arbitration in case of
persistent disagreement between painter and pro-
ducer, but in settling such disputes, it must be remem-
bered that the matter is primarily a problem in plastics.
Therefore the arbitrators must be specially chosen and
the corresponding weight be given to their vote.
19
George Rouault
IV. Exhibitions
There is no law which authorizes an artist to oppose
the exhibition of his works he has therefore trans-
ferred their ownership.
Neither his permission nor a fortiori his co-opera-
tion is required for exhibitions, the object of which is
sometimes ideological or purely commercial, or which
claim to classify artists, or even group them according
to more or less questionnable criteria.
It appears strange, then, that a painter may find
himself thus styled under labels which he finds ridic-
ulous or absurd, or associated with manifestations dis-
tasteful to his inmost feelings, or again the involuntary
instrument of movements which dare to use his name
even though he disapprove of them.
It is essential therefore to assure the painter of the
legal possibility of giving or of refusing his agreement
and making his protest heard in cases where, contrary
to his intentions, use has been made of his person or of
his name.
There remains to be considered the case of exhibi-
tions without any ideological tendency or doctrinal
pretensions, which offer the public, through some art
gallery, collections which are insufficient, badly se-
lected, or badly presented.
A painter must be able to oppose artistic manifesta-
tions made in his name in material conditions apt to
distort the meaning and result of his work; or at least
when the organizers of these manifestations consider
that they may dispense with his opinion, they should
be required to indicate clearly on all announcements
20
The Painters Rights in his Work
that the collection has been built up on the sole re-
sponsibility of the organizers.
Should the artist not be able to obtain every reason-
able satisfaction he desires from private exhibitions, he
should at all events have the absolute right to refuse
to take part in "Salons" whose official nature cannot be
contested and to which he has declined to contribute.
Lastly, instead of being obliged to go to law when
another artist uses an identical surname and Christian
name, an already established artist should have the
right to insist that a man who uses the same name be
obliged to add the second Christian name appearing
on his birth certificate.
V. Rights of Heirs and Executors
With regard to works which have already passed to
the public, the painter's heirs or the executors ap-
pointed for the purpose, exercise the moral rights in
their defensive aspect of entitlement to ensure that a
work's integrity is preserved, to oppose detrimental
alterations to it, and to prosecute those responsible.
Heirs and executors hold a position of prime im-
portance in the matter of the publication of hitherto
unpublished works.
The artist's absolute right to publish or withhold
must necessarily pass to his continuators to enable
them to decide the fate o works about which he gave
no explicit instructions before his death.
It is hard to conceive who, apart from the artist's
natural heirs if he died intestate, or his appointees for
the purpose if he left a will, could decide what should
be preserved or destroyed or what should be pub-
lished or withheld.
21
George Renault
If the artist has not appointed by will persons he
trusts to take the decision as to destruction or publica-
tion, the grave duty of making this delicate decision
and seeking the necessary powers for the purpose will
devolve upon his lawful heirs, in whom alone his legal
personality survives and who inherit both his rights
and his obligations.
Provision might be made for direct intervention by
the State when warranted by the incapacity or notori-
ous unworthiness of the heirs; in such cases the State
would impose some degree of trusteeship.
In this whole connection it should be recalled that in
the case of an author it is his heirs who are recognized
by the law as entitled to take the decision as to post-
humous publication.
In this matter, the object should be to comply with
the wishes of the artist. His decision must be respected
when he designates explicitly those who are to exer-
cise a part of his absolute rights after him.
If he leaves no word, the task is one for his heirs of
the body, on the traditional presumption which prin-
ciple dictates should be made in their favour.
VI. The Fate of Works of Art in Case of War
I can never forget the anxiety caused me during the
1914 war by the formidable task of safeguarding the
collections of the late Ambroise Vollard, containing,
amongst others, very important works of C6zanne,
Degas, Renoir, Bonnard, Picasso I have already men-
tioned this. It was with the thought of some of those
august predecessors of mine, and especially for their
sake, that I sought and succeeded in finding the house
to receive the eighty packages; the matter was urgent,
22
The Painters Rights in his Work
so the Minister had said to Ambroise Vollard, who
telegraphed to me to take immediate steps to find a
place of safety.
During the last war I know that efforts were for-
tunately made, in France at least, to shield our na-
tional heritage from bombardments, not only State
collections but those in the possession of private
owners as well.
It would be desirable, without waiting for such
crises to arise, for every country to make provision in
time of peace for the harbouring in suitable conditions
of the works to be saved from total destruction in war;
it would amount to a "spiritual" Red Cross, such as
might have been created before 1871, 1914, or 1939.
The works in question could be submitted to a Jury,
who would decide in due time, according to the im-
portance of the items, the action it would be appropri-
ate to take.
Once it had been decided that the works could be
put in a place of safety in the event of war, the person
in possession of them would be given an official mobi-
lization order which, should the occasion arise, would
enable him to deposit the works in the appointed
place.
I must add that there are other dangers than that of
destruction. During the recent conflict we saw others
resulting from the tyranny of occupation. I myself was
a victim, though many others suffered far more loss
than I did.
A civilization may be judged by the way in which
it tolerates the destruction of masterpieces and accepts
a return to the excesses of brute force without correc-
tive and without taking any protective measures. Art
23
George Rouault
is a deliverance even in the midst of suffering, but to
those who have no feeling for intellectual freedom, art
is a crime! The artist a madman? Wiser lie is in truth
than king or emperor!
The painter with a genuine love of his art is a king
in his own right however diminutive Ms kingdom,
however small his own stature. This is true royalty,
and cannot be wrested from you, Chardin, Corot,
Cezanne. You need never abdicate the throne that you
won without violence, and you will leave a happier
memory than many a crowned monarch, for people
will understand your work and feel its message for
all time, perhaps.
For such artists it is not force, but love, that rules
the world.
Were I able, I could say much on this subject, quot-
ing many examples.
A learned man once declared that the world held no
more mysteries! Which goes to show that one can be
very learned and yet very foolish.
In those realms of the spirit where the artist roams,
everything is imponderable; yet subject to a stricter
law than that of weight and measurefor it is a law
inspired from within, not imposed from without. The
artist can be at one with the people and with the
nobility. Aloof though he may stand, there are hidden
links that bind him to mankind more closely than the
men of action so alien to him.
In this mechanical century, surely art can sometimes
be called a miracle?
24
JAMES T. FARRELL was born
in 1904 in Chicago. His books
include Studs Lonigan, the
"Danny O'NeilF books, The
Face of Time. He received a
$2,500 Book - of - the - Month
Club award in 1937 for Studs
Lonigan. In the same year he
received a Guggenheim Fel-
lowship. Mr. Farr ell's non-fic-
tion books are A Note on
Literary Criticism, The League
of Frightened 'Philistines, and
Literature and Morality.
On the Function of the Novel
I have titled this essay On the Function of the Novel.
However, it is not my intention to present a special
theory of the novel, and to try and jam it down the
throats of my readers. Rather, I merely want to offer
some observations about the novel, and about what
the experience of reading novels can mean and can
bring to us.
In the preface to one of the editions of Arnold Ben-
nett's novel, The Old Wives" Tale, the author describes
how in the autumn of 1903, he used to dine at a cer-
tain restaurant in Paris. Among others who attracted
his attention, there were two waitresses. One was a
pale and beautiful young girl, who waited on tables
far from where he sat, and to whom he never spoke.
25
James T. Farrell
The other was a stout middle-aged woman, bossy and
authoritative by disposition. Since she served him
regularly, she began to take on a maternal attitude
with him. If he remained away from the restaurant a
couple of evenings, she would ask him why he had
been unfaithful to her. Finally, she obtruded her per-
sonality upon him to such a degree that he decided
not to return to the restaurant, and to become, as it
were, perpetually unfaithful to her. One evening, be-
fore he had made this final decision, he noticed a fat,
shapeless, ugly and grotesque old woman enter. Her
voice and gestures were ridiculous. Observing her,
Arnold Bennett quickly guessed that, as a consequence
of a long period of years of living alone, the grotesque
old woman had grown peculiar, without apparently
having become conscious of her peculiarities. She car-
ried many parcels which she kept dropping. And be-
cause of the way in which she chose a table and then
changed to another, almost everyone in the restaurant
laughed at her. Observing this scene, Arnold Bennett
was pained by the coarse manner in which the pale
and beautiful young waitress laughed. That was the
one to whom he had never spoken. He reflected that
this ridiculous old woman had once been young, slim,
and perhaps, beautiful. Then she had probably been
free of ridiculous mannerisms. To him, she was tragic,
and he thought that she could become the subject or
protagonist of a moving novel, which would recount
and recreate the life history of such a woman. Also, in
this preface, Arnold Bennett stated: "Every stout,
aging woman is not grotesque far from it! But there
is an extreme pathos in the mere fact that every stout,
aging woman was once a young girl with unique
26
On the Function of the Novel
charm of youth in her form and movements and her
mind. The fact that the change from the young girl to
the stout, aging woman is made up of an infinite num-
ber of infinitesimal changes, each unperceived by her,
only intensifies the pathos."
Thus, in a Paris restaurant, Arnold Bennett con-
ceived the idea of writing The Old Wives 9 Tale. It
tells the lif e story of two women. It begins when they
are first girls, and carries them to their graves, record-
ing a series of "infinitesimal changes" which reveal
how they change from youth to age. The Old Wives'
Tale constitutes a story of what happened, or could
happen in the lives of two sisters. This moving novel,
and the story of its genesis or inspiration can give us a
suggestive sense of what is involved in the so-called
process of literary creation.
All of us, whether we be novelists or not, have ex-
periences, similar in character or kind to that of
Arnold Bennett in the Paris restaurant in 1903. In the
course of any single day we have endless thoughts and
experiences. We touch, in a fragmentary way, or im-
pinge on an untold number of other lives. We are
constantly observing, or sensing, thinking and dream-
ing or fantasizing. Our inner life continues from min-
ute to minute, like a stream. And in the course of this,
we more or less pose countless questions about our-
selves and about other people. We wonder why we
had such and such a thought at such and such a time.
We wonder why we are sad at such and such a mo-
ment, or why we might suddenly be happy. We won-
der what others are like. We may look casually at
children returning from school, and wonder what they
will be like when they grow up. Or our curiosity may
27
James T. Farrell
be touched by a feeble old man, or by others we see
in a public place, or pass on a sidewalk. And all of
this might be generalized with the statement that we
wonder and are curious about the nature of experi-
ence. We wonder what happens and what is happen-
ing and what might happen to ourselves and to others.
It is out of this concern with the nature of experi-
ences that novels are conceived and written. Often it
is out of experiences much like those of many others
that novelists will find a starting point or inspiration
for a novel. There will be something they see, some-
thing that happens, some impression they have,
something in their own experience which will impel
them to evolve, think through, imagine, construct and
work out a whole story. Arnold Bennett's preface to
The Old Wives' Tale offers us one clear illustration of
this. Many others could easily be offered. We say of
novels that they are imaginative means of exploring
some aspects of the nature of experience. This is not
only true, necessarily, for the novelist, himself: it can
alsoand it often does become the means whereby
readers immerse themselves in human experiences.
Keeping the above paragraphs in mind, let us ap-
proach our subject from a somewhat different stand-
point. Newspapers provide us with one type of record
of the times in which we live. Here, and for the pur-
poses of illustration, let us refer to Fascist Italy during
the 1930's. The principal picture and record of Fascist
Italy, which we in America received, came to us
out of a day by day journalistically written news story.
Our sense of this life in Fascist Italy was colored by
our own views. It was further organized more or less
in terms of the way in which the political, social and
28
On the Function of the Novel
economic problem of Italy, and of the world at large
were phrased and posed. We inclined to think of life
in Italy in a journalistic and, also, in an ideological
manner. But posed in ideological language, in socio-
politico-economic terminology, and in the language of
journalists, does not always and necessarily coincide
with the way in which the life and struggle behind
these problems as felt by individual human beings.
There is no literal one-one relationship or equation
to use a phrase from logic between the way in which
problems and conditions of Me are posed and de-
scribed in journalistic and/or in scholarly or ideological
books, and the manner in which life is lived and felt,
second by second, and minute by minute.* The day
by day reporting on Italy, and the non-fiction books on
Fascist Italy did not provide us at least sufficiently
with what we might call human images. However, if
our knowledge of a period, a country, the life of a
people in a certain time, lacks human images, this
knowledge is likely to be limited, to be inefficiently
deep. If we would wish to understand more of a time
or of a period, it is valuable for us to be able to link
up what we know as facts, information, and opinion
with a sense and awareness of what all this means and
feels like in human terms.
Keeping these observations in mind, let us continue
with our illustration of Fascist Italy. Let us imagine
ourselves living back in the 1930's. Then, under Mus-
solini^ rule, Me flowed by, minute by minute, for
* I make this observation, here, with no intention of deriding
journalists, scholars, or sincere ideological writers. Rather, I
seek to clarify distinctions which might aid us in regarding and
reading novels in a more clear state of mind.
29
James T. Farrell
millions of Italians. We read news accounts of Italy in
The New York Times. But could we, with sufficient
imagination and with a sense of identification, feel
with and possess an adequate comprehension of the
people whose Hying destinies constituted the ultimate
content and meaning of these news stories? Questions
about some of these Italians, and about what they felt
could have come to us just as parallel ones, about the
old woman, occurred to Arnold Bennett in that Paris
restaurant in 1903. For instance, we might have read
an article dealing with the land reform question in
Italy. We might have asked ourselves the question
what did it mean to one or another Italian peasant?
We might then have happened to take a walk, and to
have seen an Italian, who was obviously bom in Italy.
Our thoughts and our attention could momentarily
have switched to him. We could have speculated about
what would have happened to him had he not immi-
grated to America, Then, the hypothetical news ac-
count on the land problem could well have related to
and vitally affected his destiny as a human being. In,
a sense, these hypothetical questions can be compared
with those Arnold Bennett recounted in his preface
to The Old Wives 9 Tale. They are questions evolving,
growing out of curiosity and wonder.
The novels, Fontamara and Bread and Wine, by
Ignazio Silone both deal with people living under the
conditions of Italian Fascism. Fontamara treats almost
exclusively of the life of Abrazzi peasants. Bread and
Wine describes aspects of peasant life, but also it re-
veals to us what Fascist officials were like. Its chief
protagonist, Pietro Spina, is a revolutionary who has
returned from exile seeking to gain a refreshed sense
30
On the Function of the Novel
of life, and to test and develop his own values. He had
become fed up with the life of exile and is repelled by
the arid slogans of mere political agitation. These two
novels would have provided us with a partial answer
to the curiosity we might have had in the 1930's con-
cerning what it was like in Italy under Mussolini. The
novels of Silone give us humanized images of life in
Fascist Italy.
It has repeatedly been remarked that often we seem
to know the characters of great novels, perhaps better
and more fully than we know even some of our own
best friends. The characters of a great novel acquire
for us an extraordinary reality. We identify ourselves
intimately with them, and we imaginatively share in
their experiences. We hope as they hope, and we suf-
fer as they suffer. Their tragic fates fill us with pity
and sympathy, and their deaths imbue us with a sense
of loss. And it is this process of identification and of
imaginatively sharing in the experience rendered in
literature which enables us to fill out and to intensify
our knowledge of a time, a period or a society. The
humanized images of people can help to bring us back
to what is the source of all significant artistic and intel-
lectual effort the struggles, aspirations, joys and sor-
rows of human beings. If we are to live with quickened
sympathies and with live interest in the world, we
need, constantly, to be reminded that all of this with
which we are dealing, relates, in the last analysis, to
men and women, to human beings. We need to restore,
to refresh, to deepen, and to keep clear OUT sense of
this all important truism. And, novels, in dealing with
what happens, in giving answers, in the sense in which
I have akeady indicated, can do this for us.
31
James T. Farrell
II
Lord Bryce coined the phrase, "glittering generali-
ties." It requires little thought or effort to write an
editorial, let us say, in glittering generalities, which
praises a certain way of Me. Here, it does not matter
whether we call this the American way of life, or the
Soviet way of life, or any other way of life. With rela-
tive ease, any literate person of moderate ability can
justify any way of life in generalized language, and
with unproved assertions. Relying on words which
have an extra-logical and symbolic meaning, and sub-
stituting stereotypes for impressions, many editorial
writers and commentators do this. The comment on
the "cold war" has, to a considerable extent, de-
generated into just this. Ideas are being turned into
stereotypes, and sentiments and emotions into senti-
mentalities. Fixed and highly editorialized conceptions
of life are more and more being sold and established
as true pictures, images and representations of life.
And with this point in mind, let me refer to life
among the Cossacks, in the Soviet Union, during the
period from the Russian Revolution on through to that
of forced collectivization in 1930. Any Communist
party hack in Russia could have written an editorial
in Prauda, or in another Russian paper, speaking in
glowing and generalized terms about the Bolshevik
Revolution, the Five- Year-Plan and the glory of social-
istist collectivization. We can, in fact, suppose that this
was done, ad nauseum. Suppose we had read one of
these editorials. We could have asked ourselvesas
we had concerning Italywhat does this mean, what
is this like in terms of the Cossacks themselves. And if
32
On the Function of the Novel
we read Mikhail Sholokhov's novels Quiet Flows the
Don, The Don Flows Into the Sea, and Seeds of To-
morrow, we should have encountered novels which,
at least partially, fed and satisfied some of our curios-
ity. For these novels tell us of the fates of different
kinds of Cossacks during this bloody historic period.
They suggest what the Revolution, the Civil War and
the Collectivization meant in terms of the traditions,
the way of life, the customs and the feelings of the
Cossacks. The novels also depict the sufferings of
tile Cossacks, and describe many of the things they did
as a consequence of the confusion that came with sharp
and violent historic change. Engulfed in events which
are far beyond their own powers to control Sholokhov's
Cossacks, whether they accept or resist the trend of
events, live through their foys, sadnesses and tragedies,
and we let me repeat get a human and sequential
picture of all this. Human beings are recreated on
paper. They spring to life from printed words in such
a way that we can identify with them. We can say and
feel, people are like this. We can believe in the valid-
ity of these Cossacks, just as we can in that of Silone's
peasants and Fascist officials, and of Arnold Bennett's
two women.
I could give many other illustrations. In passing, we
are all familiar with tabloid newspaper stories about
crimes of passion and of love murders. Theodore
Dreiser's great novel, An American Tragedy, is woven
out of just such material. In fact, Dreiser used the
court records and the newspaper account of a case
occurring in 1908, the Chester Gillette-Grace Brown
murder case. Similarly in fashion, in his novels, The
Titan, The Financier, The Stoic, he based his story on
S3
James T. FarreU
the life of a famous American capitalist of the period
of the robber barons, Charles T. Yerkes. Comments,
parallel to or similar with those which I have already
made in reference to Bennett, Silone and Sholokhov
could here be offered in connection with these novels
of Dreiser. However, I believe that my point has been
sufficiently established, and I shall forego these added
comments.
Ill
Values are implied in the attitudes which we hold,
in the choices and decisions which we make, and in
our actions. They need to be seen as good and bad in
terms of the way in which they can be lived by. When
we read a statement relating to values, and couched
in terms of glittering generalities, we can ask ourselves
questions like these What does it mean to live by
these values? How do people, or how might people
live by these values? Novels constitute one kind of
imaginatively constructed story of characters and
events which depict how people live according to vari-
ous values. In this sense, novels afford a means of
testing the values in a society. If, for purposes of illus-
tration here, we make a separation between theory or
thought and emotions or imagination, we can say this
in theory, in, for instance, philosophical theorizing,
and so on, we can work out what life means intellect
tually, and after having done that, we have clarified
ourselves so that we may be in a better position to act
We can say that, correspondingly, with art, and here,
since I am talking about novels most specifically, with
novels, we can work through and live out imaginatively
in the same way that we can, intellectually, in terms of
34
On the Function of the Newel
theoretical analysis. We can Imaginatively live through
various lands of experiences by merely immersing our-
selves in and giving ourselves to a novel. Reading it
intelligently, we can live through experiences which,
in turn, are a kind of test of our own moral standards,
our judgments, our way of seeing characters and
events. Out of this, we can become more clear con-
cerning our own attitudes. We can test these attitudes
and apply them as we read in order to ascertain
whether or not they will hold water. We can come to
some clearer awareness, not only of what we think
and know, but also of what we feel. And here we can
see one of the important, or at least, potentially impor-
tant functions of the novel
IV
At this point, I wish to comment briefly on one
aspect of novel writing which is, I believe, relevant to
my subject here. From the standpoint of the novelist
himself, we can assert that one of the things that he
achieves Is, through writing, to attain a more inte-
grated personality. After all, it Is quite obvious that
we can attain a more integrated personality by taking
command of and handling our experiences. We attain
an integrated personality, along with this, by becoming
more conscious of the world, and of ourselves. I have
already remarked of novels that they can be a means
of testing values. This can apply to the novelist him-
self. In creating characters, he is giving expressions to
various needs and unconscious drives within his own
nature. He pours out his emotions, imaginatively.
Identifying himself with his various characters, he
goes through his own process of imaginative living.
35
James T. Farrel
He is, almost literally speaking, engaged in discovery,
discovery of aspects of Ms own, as well as of other
natures.
^ A parallel process goes on in the mind of the reader.
If the reader gives himself to the experience of reading
a novel, as it were, he recapitulates part of the process
of the creation of the novel when he reads it in a seri-
ous manner. In consequence, it is possible, through
reading, to become more self -aware, as well as to be-
come more aware of other people. And this, likewise,
can be the way to greater integration for the reader.
Literature does not help us to become more aware in
general, or in a general sense alone. The increased
awareness gained through experience with literature,
either as creator or reader, is or can be an increased
awareness that relates to ourselves and to our own
development.
My observations here should have a special signifi-
cance now because of the character of life in our time.
Again and again the complexity of modern life is the
subject of comment. Complexity and crises are among
the hallmarks of our era. Behind these, are forces,, so-
called, which are beyond our individual control. We
all feel a need for greater participation in the life and
in the culture of our time. But we are more or less
atomized, more or less alienated. The division of labor,
one of the primary factors in the development of our
technological civilization, results in our giving use and
expression to only a limited number of our impulses,
faculties and our potentialities. Impersonal factors be-
yond otir control and decisions play decisive roles in
ordering our lives. For instance, consider the degree
to which the very processes of modern technological
36
On the Function of the Novel
civilization are contributing to the organization of our
lives on time schedules. We are creatures of time, of
the clock, as Thorstein Veblen observed in The Instinct
of Workmanship. Also, Veblen argued that we were
not born to live in accordance with the time schedules
which technological and industrial civilization impose
upon us. Many of our relationships are, likewise, simi-
larly controlled. An obvious illustration is to be found
in business relationships. Business conversations are
quite different from the conversations of friends. They
are more or less centered in the terms of the business
being discussed. People are not always polite because
they want to be polite, but because the business dic-
tates their politeness. They try to control what they
say, what they do not say, in terms of the deal they
are discussing. The relationships of people working in
the same business are controlled by common purposes
and by their common relationships. We have here a
channeled participation in one aspect of the life of our
time, that of business.
In many of our other relationships, there is the same
channeling. This channeling of relationships in terms
of necessary purposes, of time schedules, and so on, is
one of the factors involved in the atomization and the
alienation of people in our time. When we speak of
alienation here, it has a dual significance. On the
one hand, conditions of modern life alienate people
from each other; on the other hand, we are alien-
ated from ourselves, or from part of ourselves. Aliena-
tion from ourselves, or from part of ourselves is to be
seen in the fact that many of our faculties, of our feel-
ings, and of our thoughts are not given proper voice
or expression. They are lost within ourselves. A phrase
37
James T. Farreli
of Karl Marx is suggestive in this context "social
space." The alienation and atomization of many in our
time results, in part, from a lack of space. Modern
man needs more "social space": he requires more out-
lets for the expression of his nature. He needs to par-
ticipate more in the culture, the life of his times.
John Dewey described "shared experience/' as the
highest good of life. The phrase, "shared experience/"
should suggest something of significance and meaning
of participation in the sense that I am using it here.
The need for shared experiences in our time is, I hold,
acute. This is bound up with our need to feel more
and to know more. Andto repeat art in general, in-
cluding literature and the novel, can administer to this
need. Novels such as the ones I have mentioned and
endless others can enable us to gain a fuller sense of
participation in the culture of our own time, and in the
history of human thought and feeling.
All of us are locked up inside of ourselves. We are
mortal, and possess the limitations of our biological
nature. We know no one else in the sense that we
know ourselves. We cannot directly penetrate the
thought of any other person but ourselves. Thus, we
tend naturally and inevitably to see others as we see
ourselves, to turn others more or less into an image of
ourselves. Our image of the world is delimited and in
a crucial way controlled by our image of ourselves.*
The enlargement of our attitude toward the world, the
enlargement of our sympathy, the enlargement of our
sense of others, involves a broadening, an expansion
of this image or sense of ourselves. It involves and re-
* By "image of ourselves/* I mean more than a visual or
conceptual image: I mean our total sense of ourselves.
38
On the Function of the Novel
quires an increased ability to attain what the American
philosopher, George Herbert Mead, called "the sense
of the other." By gaining a better sense of the other,
we can expand our image, our sense of ourselves. In
this way, we will be in a better position not to be
guilty of distortion, at least, of gross distortions. Simi-
larly, we will be in a better position to see ourselves
as others see us, and to attribute to others something
of the same sympathy, emotions, feelings, generosity
that we would assume for ourselves. We can thus ex-
pand our image of ourselves. For, when reading novels
we often identify ourselves profoundly with the charac-
ters of whom we are reading. Imaginatively, we be-
come almost one with them. This is a type of "shared
experience'* which gives us a powerful means of mak-
ing our own personalities less rigid, of expanding what
we can see within this skin of ours in which we are
bound up. Here then is a significant aspect of the
dynamics, as it were, of participation. But participation
in the life and culture of the times is meaningless un-
less it is guided by a growing sense of ourselves and
of others as human beings, a growing sense of a com-
mon or basic humanity which makes us all alike, as
well as different from one another. The novel, then, is
a means of "shared experience" in this sense, and it
aids us in becoming more capable of shared experience
in our real lif e.
V
If we would make a broad statement about what the
function of art is, we could sayas Tolstoy did that
it is a means of the transmission of ideas. Somewhere
in What is Art? Tolstoy remarked to the effect that
39
James T. Farrell
thanks to culture, it is possible to know aH that has
been thought in the past, and all that is being thought
now. Strictly speaking, it is not possible to know all
that is being thought, and felt, but it is possible to
know some of this. Art, and the novel which is the
major form of art in our time, permits this. And, to
continue with Tolstoy's thoughts, he asserted and I
think correctly that thanks to this, we are not beasts.
We are social beings. What I have said in the fore-
going suggests what the transmission of experience
means in my own views. It is part of what I would call
the logic of the transmission of experience which is part
of the function of the novel.
However, in order to permit ourselves to gain some
of these values from the novel or essay, it is necessary
that we give ourselves to the experience of reading
serious novels, that we go to them with our preconcep-
tions more or less under control. If we read novels
demanding that they confirm our prejudices, and that
they give us merely stereotypes of pictures of life, then
we are closing ourselves off from making novel reading
a fully meaningful growth experience. We are not
allowing novels to help us become more human to
ourselves and to others. And this is the real and basic
function of the novel to help us become more human.
GOTTFRIED VON EINEM was
bom in Switzerland, in 1918.
He now lives in Salzburg,
Austria. He is a composer of
orcnestra and ballet music.
Dantons Tod and Der Prozess
are two operas wMdh. he wrote
which attracted wide atten-
tion. The latter is based on
- Franz Kafka's The Trial Since
1948 Von Einem has been one
of the five-member board of
directors of the Salzburg Fes-
tivals. These Festivals have
gained international fame be-
cause of their high quality.
The Salzburg Festival
Long before the Salzburg Festival 'was started in its
present form, performances of the works of Mozart
were held in Salzburg. These were executed by inter-
nationally known artists, like Gustav Mahler, but never
achieved more than local significance. After the first
World War Hugo Von Hofmannsthal, Richard Strauss,
Max Reinhardt, Franz S chalk and Alfred Roller com-
bined to creat a Festival, the first since Bayreuth,
which would stand outside and above the orthodox
theatre. German and Austrian theatres, indeed most
European theatres, had been "Court Theatres/* After
the vital political change brought about by the revolu-
tion in 1918 theatres had to fight for their existence.
41
Gottfried Von Einem
Slowly they bloomed and became state, municipal or
private Theatres. Out of this crisis grew the idea of
a Festival.
The artists luckily found Franz Rehrl who became
Chief Administrator of Salzburg. Able, energetic, sym-
pathetic to creative ideas, he managed to put the
Festival on a firm financial basis.
In 1920 Hofmannsthal's adaption of the old English
play Everyman, which had been played before in
Berlin by the famous Reinhardt Company, was staged
for the first time as an open-air production on the
Domplatz in Salzburg. The idea of presenting a play
about the death of a wealthy man after the disaster
of 1918 and the consequent insecurity of all values,
both material and moral, before an architectural back-
ground of medieval power and self-assurance, proved
itself extremely effective. In spite of some resistance
from the press against this experiment the performance
has remained practically unchanged as one of the
main features of the Salzburg Festival up to the
present day.
It had always been intended to produce plays and
opera included in the program of the new Festival;
but the opera required a greater apparatus orchestra,
chorus, stagehands, etc. It was only in 1922 that Ab-
duction of the Seraglio, Marriage of Figaro, Don
Giovanni,, Cosi Fan Tutti, were presented at the Salz-
burg Municipal Theatre with Richard Strauss and
Franz Schalk conducting. Reinhardt presented The
Great Salzburg World Theatre by Calderon-Hofmann-
sthal in the Collegien Kirche. This revived the old
tradition of presenting morality plays in churches. It
was the intention of Hofmannsthal and Reinhardt to
42
The Salzburg Festival
use the inherent local possibilities for their theatrical
productions. This brought a crop of completely new
ideas for the staging of play and opera. Hofmannsthal
says: "Salzburg is indeed the heart of this Austrian-
Bavarian country. All those cultural and geographical
lines connecting Vienna with Munich, Tyrol with Bo-
hemia, Nuremberg with Styria and Corinthia, con-
verge here. Here, also, one finds the Southern German
Baroque landscape and architecture. The landscape
becomes the counterpoint to architecture, and archi-
tecture has taken possession so passionately and theat-
rically, that parting these two elements would be
unthinkable. The square in front of the Dome sur-
rounded by palaces, columns, archways is Italian,
almost timeless. It is overlooked by the mountains of
a German landscape crowned by a German castle.
Next to it rises St. Francis Church in the pure style of
the Middle Ages. The statues in front of the Dome are
early Baroque. It was Max Reinhardfs idea to build
the stage for the Everyman play on this square in front
of the Dome fagade. But as the play came to life, it
became obvious that in this place with its peculiar
merging of nature and architecture, this theatrical
dream has always been imminent.'*
Another stage was found by Reinhardt in the former
Summer Riding School, part of the palace of the Salz-
burg Archbishops. The Rocky Riding School is partly
hewn into the massive rock of the Monchsberg. The
wall of rock with its carved arcades served as back-
ground for a podium on which he staged The Servant
of Two Masters by Goldoni. In 1933 he used the same
place in which Clemens Holzmeister had built a whole
medieval town, serving as a stage for Goethe's Faust.
43
Gottfried Von Einem
Tins time the arcades became part of the play. Rein-
hardt thus exploited the tremendous space and height
of the locality. Faust became a regular feature like
Even/man.
In 1948 after World War II, Oscar Fritz Schuh and
Caspar Neher adapted the Felsenreitschule for Opera.
An orchestra pit was hewn into the rock and the scenery
for Orpheus and Euridice (Gluck) was a semicircle of
columns centered by a big arch. In his production
Oscar Fritz Schuh used the three galleries of arcades
for the chorus, and made Orpheus descend from the
highest gallery till he reached the ground level of
inferno.
The same semicircle, but with the space between
the columns closed, was used for the world premiere
of Carl Orffs Antigone (after Sophocles-Holderlin).
And for the production of the Magic Flute the decora-
ration was used with small adaptations. The next year
Josef Gielen produced Mozart's Idomeneo here, Neher
again designing costumes and decor. In 1953 Oskar
Walterlin staged Goldonis play The Liar and Gielen
staged Shakespear's Julius Caesar; Herbert Graf and
Holzmeister, in an entirely changed decoration, Don
Giovanni.
In 1953 still another locality for playing opera was
inaugurated. Schuh and Neher adapted the courtyard
of the Episcopalian residence for Cosi Fan Tutte
reserving the Carabineri Hall inside the residence in
case of bad weather.
Works of Mozart have always been played in Salz-
burg and still are the heart-core of the Festival pro-
grams. And one could say that the Salzburg Festival
has become similar to a museum, due to the personality
44
The Salzburg Festival
of Richard Strauss who was one of the initiators. From
the very beginning, his works, most of which were also
conceived in collaboration with Hofmannsthal, and
which bear the strong imprint of South German theat-
rical temperament, have always had their place at the
side of Mozart, Beethoven's Fidelia, Weber and Cluck.
In 1947 my opera Death of Danton (after Buchner's
play) was given its first performance in Salzburg; after
which it became the rule to include one modem opera,
preferably not staged before, in the Festival program.
So in 1948 Frank Martin's Le Vin Herbe was played
in the Municipal Theatre (Ferenc Fricsay conducted,
Schuh stage directed and Neher did the decor). The
same team had worked on my opera the year before
and produced in 1949 OrfFs Antigone. In 1950 Krips-
Gielen-Neher performed Boris Blacher's Romeo and
Juliette (after Shakespeare), and B. Britten's Rape of
Lucretia. In 1951 Alban Berg's Wozzek (after Buch-
ner's play) was produced by Karl Bohm, Schuh and
Neher. During the year 1952 the posthumous world
premiere of Strauss' Love of Dance (after Hofmanns-
thal-Gregor) was performed. Clemens Krauss con-
ducted, Rudolf Hartmann produced and Emil Preg-
torius designed the decor. In 1953 I had my second
opera The Trial (after Kafka's novel) performed by
Bohm, Schuh, Neher.
There were many voices bitterly opposing the inclu-
sion of modern works into the Festival program. They
called them inadequate experiments; yet the develop-
ment of more than thirty years has proved those pessi-
mists wrong. This is not surprising! History has shown
that each period has looked at the works of the past
through the mirror of contemporary production.
45
Gottfried Von Einem
Now drama has been dropped from the program.
It should be remembered that the Salzburg Festival
started with theatre, for in the early times the strongest
creations came from the drama side. But then Salzburg
was fortunate to have the rare combination of two
men like Hofmannsthal and Reinhardt, one was a
poet, the other a brilliant producer. Both were gifted
with the special sense for exceptional theatrical solu-
tions which could not have been realized by routine
theatre. After the German breakdown of 1945 it be-
came obvious that there had not been any important
dramatic production since 1933 within the German-
speaking cultural area. (Carl Zuckmayer and Bertolt
Brecht had both been known in the Twenties ) . No new
dramatist of international significance had arisen. It is
perhaps a consequence of this fact that the gifted
younger generation of stage directors has specialized
more or less in opera. These productions seem to offer
more variety and interest. While drama in Germany
hardly grew within the last twenty years, opera pro-
duction increased. Talents like Boris Blacher, Werner
Egk, Carl Orff and Rudolf Wagner-Regeny can be
considered as leading in contemporary opera produc-
tion. The fact that Stravinsky, who had always had a
kind of aversion against this form of art, wrote a full-
length opera at a time when prophets predicted the
end of opera was in itself interesting. The Festival
town of Salzburg aims at attracting an international
public. Music overcomes language barriers. And Salz-
burg attempts to present a high musical level.
On Sunday mornings the world-famous Viennese
Philharmonic Orchestra, headed by celebrated con-
46
The Salzburg Festival
ductors, presents its programs. Richard Strauss, Felix
Weingartner, Arturo Toscanini, Franz Schalk, Karl
Muck, Wilhelm Furtwangler, Fritz Busch have con-
ducted in the past Now only Bruno Walter remains.
To this list have been added younger promising men:
Charles Munch, Herbert Von Karajan, Ferenc Fricsay,
Alceo Galiera, Raffael Kubelik, Igor Makevitch and
Guido Cantelli. The personality of the conductor adds
an additional stimulus; for instance, the programs of
Bruno Walter show clearly his great love and devotion
for the work of his master and friend, Gustav Mahler.
The performances of the works of Mozart conducted
by Richard Strauss remain unforgettable. Especially
attractive were Toscaninf s mixed programs with their
bewitching interpretations of impressionist music al-
ternating with superbly witty and fiery performances
of the overtures of Rossini and Verdi, grouped round
the revered homage brought for the German masters
such as Brahms and Beethoven.
The German Classic and Romantic, however, were
mainly in the domain of Wilhelm Furtwangler, who
added to his exemplary performances of Beetho-
ven's symphonies, the great, almost obsessed, demonic
interpretations of works of Weber and Bruckner. Yet
one must never forget that Furtwangler was a staunch
supporter of modern music. Other original program
makers are Hans Knappertsbusch, Karl Bohm and
Clemens Krauss. These magnificent orchestra concerts
were introduced to the Salzburg program in 1925 and
have been an important part of the festival.
Besides these, however, were a series of musical
performances more specifically Salzburgian, the like
47
Gottfried Von Einem
of which would be hard to find anywhere else in the
world, not only in regard to the artistic perfection
achieved, but also owing to the particular staging,
Among these are Mozart serenades under the skilled
hands of Bernhard Baumgartner who has contributed
untiring efforts to develop the Salzburg Festival.
Baumgartner is director of the Mozarteum, founded
in 1927. These serenades are given in historical
settings such as the Courtyard of the Palace of the
Archbishop and in the Rocky Biding School. These
romantic places are lit only by candles or torches,
when works by Mozart and his contemporaries are
given. The music is usually played by the Orchestra
of the Mozarteum. Short, graceful inarches played at
the beginning and at the end, draw the listeners into
the rhythm of the marching musicians and into the
slow movements of the serenades. The serenades are
perhaps the most authentic part of the Salzburg
Festival and the highest testimony of the live presence
of Mozart's music. The performances of the C Minor
Mass are given in St. Peter's Church. This perform-
ance, initiated by Baumgartner, has become one of the
highlights of the Festival. Mozart composed this Mass
for Salzburg. It was presented for the first time in St.
Peter's Church when Mozart visited his home town
for the first time with Ms wife; Constanze sang, on
this occasion, the moving, effective solo. The annual
presentation of the Mass with leading singers pays
homage to one of the very last musical creations which
Mozart undertook in Salzburg.
Very typical of Mozart and the Salzburg Festival
are the Mozart matinees introduced by Baumgartner
in 1949. They are given in the Mozarteum by the
48
The Salzburg Festival
Mozarteuni Orchestra, and by the Camerafa Academ-
ica of the Mozarteum, founded in 1952. Their special
function is to bring before the audience works of
Mozart which the ordinary program usually neglects.
They are exemplary performances with the very best
singers.
Another type of concert, ranging from the classic to
modem music, is given weekly by the very best en-
sembles in the Mozarteum. Especially popular among
these are recitals by singers, with famous conductors
at the piano as accompanists. Among the very first
performances of this kind was that of Bruno Walter
with Lotte Lehmann; the Festival of 1953 took up
this worthy tradition with a concert given by Wilhelm
Furtwangler and Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, devoted
entirely to the songs of Hugo Wolf.
Another early undertaking of the Salzburg Festival
was the introduction of the Dome Concerts. Hugo von
Hofrnannsthal suggested in 1925 that the religious
morality play Everyman given on Sunday afternoon,
should find its spiritual continuation in performances
of sacred music on Sunday evenings. Thus in 1926
concerts were held under the leadership of the con-
ductor of the Cathedral of the Archbishop. Each
summer four to eight of the great religious works for
Orchestra and Chorus are heard, such as Haydn's
Creation., Handel's Messiah, etc. They are performed
by the Cathedral Choir and singers employed at the
Festival and the Orchestra of the Mozarteum. In the
beginning these concerts were played in the Cathe-
dral; after the second World War, owing to bomb
damage, they had to be transferred to the Aula of
the University.
49
Gottfried Von Einem
Another branch of activity which is gaining more
and more significance is the musical undertakings with
purely educational aims. The Mozarteum was elevated
in 1953 to the rank of a University College. This takes
on special importance for Austria's new musical
generation of singers and orchestra players.
The foreign visitor may find the international sum-
mer academy particularly interesting. It, too, is held
in the Mozarteum under the direction of Eberhard
Preussner. Famous teachers from all parts of the world
are invited to lead those master courses. Composition
is taught by such well known teachers as Boris
Blacher, Goffredo Petrassi, Carl Orff and Wolfgang
Fortner. These master courses are mainly attended
by students from the United States.
The Salzburg Festival is looking forward to its
Thirty-fifth Year Jubilee. Naturally there are increas-
ingly complicated organizational problems. The Vien-
nese State Opera helps with some of these problems.
As a rule the first conductor of the Viennese State
Opera plays a great part as a conductor of the
Festival. (Examples are Strauss, Schalk, Walter,
Krauss, B5hn.) Vienna's State Opera sends to Salz-
burg not only their orchestra, the Viennese Philhar-
monic Orchestra, but also their choir, many of their
singers and most of their technical personnel. The
scenery to a large extent is produced in the great
studios attached to the Viennese State Opera. To
further Salzburg's own production of scenery, a special
Chief of State Scenery was appointed a few years ago.
All this is the result of the careful planning executed
by the responsible heads of the Festival. In the begin-
ning as Kunstrdte (artistic advisers) such eminent
50
The Salzburg Festival
men as Max Reinhardt, Hofmannsthal, Strauss, Schalk
and Alfred Roller (scenery designer) were leading
supporters.
Since the end of World War II, the direction of the
Festival is in the hands of the Directorate which, in
consultation with the artistic advisers, is responsible
for all planning and execution.
The responsibility is shared by the Kuratorium^
which is mainly concerned with finding the necessary
funds. This Kuratorium consists of representatives of
the state and Salzburg itself, and the Directorate con-
sisting of a president and not more than four members.
They submit the budget which has to be approved by
the Kuratorium. This complicated machinery might
appear somewhat overbearing, but one must consider
the enormously complicated organization which goes
into action at the Festival each year.
The visitor experiences the joy and peace of the
Festival. The German poet Gerhart Hauptmann once
said: "Festival in Salzburg, that is the most natural
and most happy time there can be. The eternal
well of pure poetry in the heart of this magnificent,
wonderful city brings a pilgrimage of men of peace."
51
HOWARD CARROLL was born
in Maryland. His work has
appeared in The Sewanee Re-
view, The Menorah Journal
and in Prairie Schooner Mr.
Carroll has taught religion
and philosophy at Northwest-
ern University.
Parabolas
France: 1939-44
Pockmarked with kisses, here our dreams
reverse this movement to the proof
o origins
and at a sacred circle where
our eyes and panthers tread
the python's blur.
Well bound in joy, idea stands
to dive into the babble of a crowd:
Come, voice, to be the guardian of mind,
now to embrace, display its worth
at intersection of the sellers' cries.
There,
there is a figure of the circus
(grand and feminine, intense)
become a haberdashery of tones
for wedded ears of wooden men.
Depth-digger,
grave-digger,
there
we hide in overturned pagodas,
-we who are the vowels of virginity.
On the left we pace, sightseers;
on the right a sinister unknotted
monogram, which writhes, a zoophyte,
in shattered streams
of monuments and cockleshells, to cry
its exorcism:
Morbid stallion, die!
55
Howard Carroll
2
And, in a night centripetal, a worm
inscribes upon its roll of country-saints
the satin souls of nations' pimps.
We go,
say GO
these pious or tumultuous illuminations
to an action of the belly's creed
and naked dissolution of this tense.
Always in the great morocco tomes
libidinous bookworms sire a void.
On swings the sun, no less
divinely genital, to crush
the precious inner doubts
and for all green and hungry
forms provide an end.
In native warmth all grows to death,
created sense.
Language, in its court-dress,
from a tumbril must harangue
the loitering fox!
Now, fabled syllogism, speak!
and in the distances of faith and memory
there sounds
a battering of laughing rams.
This is the section of an ecstacy.
4
But
We are finally to be, and quietly,
the sisters who,
for their propriety,
are present at the execution where
56
Parabolas
cold shots strike down the heads
and tuMps in the eye.
Pensive stallion, pray.
And now a lover in a dream,
caught on a low trajectory of suns,
tells us that a thorn has left the beam.
Here
by a river full of fish
brown women with their full
bare arms beat out those clouds that must,
for ages yet, restrain
the dirty breasts of heaven.
But only lovers in a dream
grasp, renounce with nerveless grace,
bathing in a lucent stream.
Here,
here this vale's proud flesh must break
and view go red with hate.
Somewhere,
ah,
somewhere an heiress to the perfidy of words
plays on a looted harp.
57
THEODORE ROSZAK was
born in 1907. He was awarded
the Frank G. Logan Medal at
the Art Institute of Chicago
in 1947 and 1951. Mr. Roszak
has exhibited in the nation's
major museums as well as
abroad and is currently ex-
hibiting with eleven other
Americans in Paris, London,
Brussels, Stockholm, Milan,
and Zurich. His work is rep-
resented in many United
States collections and others
abroad the Museum of Mod-
ern Art in Sao Paulo, Brazil,
and the Tate Gallery in
London.
Problems of Modem Sculpture
The problems and solutions of the contemporary
sculptor are less often discussed than those of the
painter. The following questions were answered by
Theodore Roszak.
Ever since the reaction to the work of Rodin, there
has been a great deal of talk among sculptors on the
necessity of "truth to materials." The idea has resulted
in very different kinds of work: for example, that of
Flannagan, Brancusi or Henri/ Moore. What is your
own feeling about this question?
Truth to materials" is an old dictum which is re-
58
Problems of Modern Sculpture
examined periodically. Of course, such a concern is an
indispensable part of all honest workmanship involv-
ing materials and tools, from that of the simple crafts-
man to the architect, engineer and artist For the
sculptor, it becomes an important consideration in
shaping an attitude towards his craft. His conscious-
ness of it results in renewed exploration, discovery
and exploitation of all the plastic suggestions inherent
in materials and their processing, and thus leads to
new insights of a purely formal character.*
But it is clear that truthfulness to materials does
not alone explain the work of Brancusi, Flannagan
and Moore, else they would be similar, whereas they
are in fact widely different. For instance, in the
schematic evolution of these three sculptors we have
the equivalent in plastic terms of the Me cycle: con-
ception and germination (the egg form of Brancusi);
foetal development and emergence, the breaking up
of the simple organic cell and the mystic invocation
of Me (Flannagan); the interaction of more dynamic
tensions expressing maturity and the growth of the
separately related forms of the family group (Moore).
While I use the work of these three artists collectively
as illustration, it does not follow that this evolutionary
parallel takes into account their individual success
as artists; but it does suggest one fend of growth
pattern represented by plastic ideas.
I would choose to investigate in order better to
understand their personal qualities and the distinct
plastic order that each of them representsthe manner
in which each was individually affected by the pre-
* Copyright, 1949, by the Magazine of Art. Reprinted by
permission of the author,
59
Theodore Roszak
vailing atmosphere of plastic resurgence, rather than
the relevant but lesser consideration of "truth to
materials. "
There has also been among twentieth-century
sculptors, at least until recently, a strong feeling that
the true sculptor is a carver rather than a modeler
that is to say, a Michelangelo rather than a Rodin. Do
you think that cut stone is closer to the essentials of
sculpture than modeling and casting?
Modeling, to me, is a legitimate means of express-
ing sculptural ideas. Its specific technical advantage
lies in its malleability; its weakness resides in its
limited physical properties and its requirement of
armature, "props" and translation into more durable
material. Direct carving has the advantage of generat-
ing form directly in terms of its own physical prop-
erties, thus producing a consistent evolution of forms
and surfaces. While some carvers heighten the sense
of space by deep cuts and perforations, I have pre-
ferred to avoid what seems to me its stolid obedience
to physical limitations. Despite my obvious bias, I
have seen too many fine pieces of carved sculpture to
let technical considerations interfere with my enjoy-
ment of them. Nevertheless, I feel that sculpture today
demands a medium embodying a combination of
malleability and tensile strength exceeding the
possibilities of both clay and stone.
Modern technology has made possible the use of
metals with a great deal of flexibility. Today an
obstinate material like steel, which formerly yielded
only under great pressure, can be handled as easily as
wax. It has the added advantage of permitting greater
control coupled with tremendously increased tensile
60
Problems of Modern Sculpture
and compressive strength. The interplay of surfaces
brazed with alloys adds a further plastic variant.
These technical possibilities permit the expression of
new plastic ideas and experiences.
Drawing, painting and the building of construc-
tions all have a direct bearing upon my liking for
metal, and I suspect my affinity for welded and brazed
steel lies partially in the ability of this medium to
assimilate my total creative experience and yet lose
none of its own organic unity. My own method of
work is to make a drawing of an idea which, when
translated three-dimensionally in steel wire, establishes
an interrelation of lines, contours and tensions. These
may multiply or diminish as work continues, but
ultimately they determine the primary character of
planes and masses. Spatial expression is thus simul-
taneously evolved, enlisting all the plastic elements
available at the same instant.
It seems to me that one of the vital and essential
qualities of sculpture is an attitude that embodies the
most extensive persuasive accumulation of plastic
experiences and sets up tensions that constantly asseit
themselves in terms of space and in turn become one
with it.
In modem painting, there is probably a more con-
scious interaction between materials and ideas than
ever before. That is to say, the modern painters are
quite willing to allow themselves to be influenced by
the work itself as it grows under their hands and to
take suggestions (though, of course, not finished forms)
from accidents of materials. Is this same attitude to
be found among modem sculptors, and do you con-
sider it a legitimate method of creating works of art?
61
Theodore Roszak
The conscious interaction between materials and
ideas has not escaped me and, in a different way and
to a lesser degree than some painters, I am aware of
the possibilities that arise from "accidents" that the
work in hand may suggest. For me these accidents
become legitimatized only when they find their proper
relation to the whole. In a finally resolved work of art,
"accidents" and effects that were accidental in origin
lose their meaning, and it is probable that they have
served only as reminders substantiated by previous
experience. That is, accidents may awaken dormant
responses that can be plastically useful and that might
otherwise have been neglected, but I should not care
to stake my creative life upon the exclusive use of
such chance procedures. Their suggestions are helpful
only within the essential framework of consciously
directed effort.
It will doubtless be agreed that the contemporary
artistic atmosphere is more favorable to painting than
to sculpture. And it might be said that many sculptors,
even among the best and the best known, have had
their vision strongly influenced by the esthetics of
painting. What is your reaction to this state of affairs?
It is not in our time alone that the artistic atmos-
phere has been more favorable to painting; this has
been true for over three hundred years. Ever since the
renaissance, painting has enjoyed a leadership of ideas
and a numerical advantage and has been paramount
in influencing and shaping the character and values of
the visual world. From Verrocchio to Rodin, one can
cite an almost endless number of cases in which paint-
ing left its mark upon sculpture. The social disunity
following the renaissance produced an atmosphere
62
Problems of Modern Sculpture
more favorable to painting than to the other arts, and
it is to the discredit of painting as a cultural agent
that it corrupted sculpture and practically destroyed
architectureuntil the present respite that sculpture
and architecture are now "enjoying/ 7 In this connec-
tion, it is interesting to observe the inertia that seems
to me recently to have come over painting. And while
this is perhaps momentary, indicative of a transition
to new forms and accomplishments, there are never-
theless many signs that a cancelling out of ideas is
taking place, due to a generally felt lack of ability to
sustain the initiative that painting enjoyed at the
beginning of this century.
Allied with this situation is a generally felt lack of
sculpture and sculptors. Would you say that this is
due more to the esthetic bias just outlined or to a
pure lack of physical and financial opportunity for
the sculptor to do his work?
In a very immediate sense, the lack of sculptors and
sculpture is related to the reason for that esthetic bias
suggested in the preceding question, creating a set of
social circumstances unfavorable to the sculptor. Al-
though he is constantly plagued by questions of heavy
materials, express charges and lack of space, a more
fundamental reason for his plight lies in the circum-
stances peculiar to the present stage of civilization.
The last vital span of sculpture occurred at the richest
period of Christian theology, between the eleventh
and the fifteenth centuries, when the artist could work
within an assured collective unity perhaps never to
be regained. It is in a climate of such largely unified
social forces that architecture and sculpture flourish,
and any widespread practice and resurrection of
63
Theodore Roszak
sculpture, comparable to the great periods of China,
India and Greece, can result only from similar forms
of social integration.
Allied with this in turn are continuing attempts to
expand the area in which the sculptor may work. Do
you feel it profitable, for example, to attempt to con-
vince architects that they should include a place for
sculpture in their designs?
It would undoubtedly be economically profitable
for the sculptor if the architect would bear sculpture
in mind when working out his designs, and there have
been many instances of such collaboration. The results,
however, have often been so unsatisfactory that I
question its having been of genuine value either to
the sculptor or to the architect, except in rare cases.
Although this question refers to the welfare of the
sculptor, the fundamental problem is architectural I
am afraid that any intelligent planning on the part
of architect and engineer sufficiently broad in scope
to allow for an organic acceptance of sculpture in
architecture would be impossible under present con-
ditions. The prospect of supplementing architecture
with sculpture in a way that would permit the inte-
gration of their respective spacial orbits within a
consistent community environment would be little
short of miraculous.
In your work you have at various times done both
abstractions and pieces with narrative subject matter.
Does a change from one to the other imply an evolu-
tion of your style, or do you feel that both tendencies
can be carried on with success together?
I do not believe that a visual expression is ever
64
Problems of Modern Sculpture
totally beholden to an exact transcription of nature,
nor is it ever completely removed from it Art is al-
ways arrived at through some process o abstraction,
and the divergence from nature which we perceive
or feel is merely a question of degree and kind. I have
yet to see any work, however "abstract/' that has not
already had its counterpart in nature or in the man-
made world. The most rigid geometry in contemporary
art pales when we take time to explore geometric
formations in mineral and other crystalline structures.
Microscopic observation reveals a world of geometric
and amorpMc structures that dispels at a glance the
myth that abstract art bears no indebtedness to nature.
This process of abstraction applies as much to the
evolution and sequence of historical styles as it does
to the work of an individual artist. His work may
parallel the progression of styles from the renaissance
to the present day by beginning with the recording of
the object and then tending towards an increasingly
formal order; and at our stage within this development
we find it proper and consistent to explore all possible
mutations of the formal order. This process has been
strengthened because the artist, forced by the social
circumstance of an apparently growing isolation, pre-
fers to recede into his own plastic world and recreate
it. He finds additional support for his conviction be-
cause (as has by now become a commonplace) this
"discipline" was for a time lost sight of and needs to
be reaffirmed.
Direct visual sensation may occur at any level of
"abstraction" and part of our seeing experience finds
its most telling impact when this becomes a plastic
65
Theodore Roszak
exchange. Our sensibilities are by now so conditioned
that we respond in terms of sensation to any level of
abstraction as we would to narrative subject matter.
I therefore regard any single piece of my work into
whatever category it seems at first glance to fit as part
of the total fabric of my development, having been
dictated by my special predilections.
Recently many sculptors have attempted to expand
their activity both economically and esthetically by
the use of new materials. Does this sort of thing seem
propitious to you?
New materials suggest possibilities that upon occa-
sion make for a genuine contribution, and their use
deserves encouragement. I think it extremely difficult
to judge the esthetic validity of experiments at this
point, but these materials are a lively and provocative
part of our present interest in extending our plastic
vocabulary.
In my own work, I have investigated the varying
means by which these materials could be processed.
This required training in the use of both the hand and
powered tools common to our industrial life; as well
as an understanding of the manifold ways in which
new materials could function, not only esthetically
but also in terms of industry.
It may be relevant to recall that the constructivist
position in modern art assumes a total interaction with
life, theoretically and in direct engagement. This in
turn suggests that the sculptor could assume the
multiple role of artist-designer-technician and so forth,
implying a creative life beneficial to society through
industrial channels, one in which industry would
66
Problems of Modern Sculpture
reciprocate by supplying incentive and opportunity.
My personal opinion, however, is that at the present
time such economic and esthetic activity are incom-
patible. Industry today cannot absorb any genuine
esthetic values; the values inherent in it cannot begin
to supplement a creative life that demands, among
other things, an unequivocal devotion and the highest
moral integrity.
Would you say that it is better for the artist, if he
must earn a living, to do it in an occupation in no
way connected with his art or in one, like teaching
or the applied arts, that is allied toith it?
This is the perennial question of doing art with a
crutch. Except in rare instances of economic inde-
pendence, most artists must have supplementary work,
and the kind chosen is largely a matter of personal
adaptability. One point of view holds that the artist s
creative ability may be harmed by work or ideas that,
by invading his creative domain, vitiate Ms vision and
energy. It is simple to support this view by instances
where such an invasion has been disastrous; on the
other hand, one can cite historic examples to dispel it.
For instance, the renaissance artist dispersed his crea-
tive energy in many directions; and among contem-
porary artists, Klee and Kandinsky devoted many
years to teaching and writing.
Of one thing I feel sure: no supplementary activity
will have a final bearing upon a creative art. An artist
accepts such work by accident or design; but he will
soon know how well it is suited to him and will make
the necessary adjustments. Having myself done many
kinds of work, I have discovered that teaching in an
67
Theodore Roszak
institution with an atmosphere of liberal ideas serves
me best In many ways, the American college is be-
coming the only place where it is possible to combine
an interchange of ideas with some degree of economic
security.
MERGE CUNNINGHAM, the
dancer, was born in Centraiia,
Washington. He has per-
formed throughout the United
States and in France. Mi.
Cunningham was commis-
sioned in 1952, by Brandeis
University, to choreograph
the first ballet in America to
Musique Concrete. He, with
his dance company, recently
presented a series of perform-
ances in New York City.
The Impennaneiit Art
There has been a shift of emphasis in the practise of
the arts of painting, music and dancing during the
last few years. There are no labels yet but there are
ideas. These ideas seem primarily concerned with
something being exactly what it is in its time and
place, and not in its having actual or symbolic refer-
ence to other things. A thing is just that thing. It is
good that each thing be accorded this recognition and
this love. Of course, the world being what it isor the
way we are coming to understand it now we know
that each thing is also every other thing, either actu-
ally or potentially. So we don't, it seems to me, have
to worry ourselves about providing relationships and
continuities and orders and structures they cannot be
avoided. They are the nature of things. They are our-
Merce Cunningham
selves and our materials and our environment. If a
dancer dances which is not the same as having
theories about dancing or wishing to dance or trying
to dance or remembering in his body someone else's
dance but if the dancer dances, everything is there.
The meaning is there, if thaf s what you want. It's
like this apartment where I live I look around in the
morning and ask myself, what does it all mean? It
means: this is where I live. When I dance, it means:
this is what I am doing. A thing is just that thing. In
painting, now, we are beginning to see the painting,
and not the painter nor the painted. We are beginning
to see how a painted space is. In music, we are begin-
ning to hear free of our well-tempered ears.
In dance, it is the simple fact of a jump being a
jump, and the further fact of what shape the jump
takes. This attention given the jump eliminates the
necessity to feel that the meaning of dancing lies in
everything but the dancing, and further eliminates
cause-and-effect worry as to what movement should
follow what movement, frees one's feelings about con-
tinuity, and makes it clear that each act of life can be
its own history: past, present and future, and can be so
regarded, which helps to break the chains that too
often follow dancers' feet around.
There doesn't seem to me the need to expound any
longer on the idea that dance is as much a part of lif e
as anything else. Since it takes place in one form or an-
other almost constantly, that is evidence enough. The
play of bodies in space and time. When I choreograph
a piece by tossing penniesby chance, that is I am
finding my resources in that play, which is not the
product of my will, but which is an energy and a law
70
The Impermanent Art
which I too obey. Some people seem to think that It
is inhuman and mechanistic to toss pennies in creating
a dance instead of chewing the nails or beating the
head against a wall or thumbing through old note-
books for ideas. But the feeling I have when I compose
in this way is that I am in touch with a natural re-
source far greater than my own personal inventiveness
could ever be, much more universally human than
the particular habits of my own practice, and organic-
ally rising out of common pools of motor impulses.
Since dance as a part of life seems self-evident
enough, a few words about what dance is not "Not
this, not that/* Dance is not social relationships.
Though it may influence them. Dance is not emoting,
passion for her, anger against him. I think dance is
more primal than that. In its essence, in the naked-
ness of its energy it is a source from which passion or
anger may issue in a particular form, the source of
energy out of which may be channeled the energy
that goes into the various emotional behaviors. It is
that blatant exhibiting of this energy, i.e., of energy
geared to an intensity high enough to melt steel in
some dancers, that gives the great excitement This is
not feeling about something, this is a whipping of
the mind and body into an action that is so intense,
that for the brief moment involved, the mind and body
are one. The dancer knows how solidly he must be
aware of this centering when he dances. And it is
just this very fusion at a white heat that gives the
look of objectivity and serenity that a fine dancer has.
Our ecstasy in dance comes from the possible gift
of freedom, the exhilarating moment that this expos-
ing of the bare energy can give us. What is meant is
71
Merce Cunningliam
not license, but freedom, that is, a complete aware-
ness of the world and at the same time a detachment
from it.
In thinking about contemporary dance, I am con-
cerned here with the concert dance, I find that it is
the connection with the immediacy of the action, the
single instant, that gives the feeling of man's freedom.
The body shooting into space is not an idea of man's
freedom, but is the body shooting into space. And that
very action is all other actions, and is man's freedom,
and at the same instant his non-freedom. You see how
it is no trouble at all to get profound about dance. It
seems to be a natural double for metaphysical paradox.
In reference to the current idea that dance must be
expressive of something and that it must be involved
with the images deep within our conscious and un-
conscious, it is my impression that there is no need to
push for them. If these primordial, pagan or otherwise
archetypical images lie deep within us, they will
appear, regardless of our likes and dislikes, once the
way is open. It is simply a matter of allowing it to
happen. The dancer's discipline, his daily rite, can
be looked at in this way: to make it possible for the
spirit to move through his limbs and to extend its
manifestations into space, with all its freedom and
necessity. I am no more philosophical than my legs,
but from them I sense this fact: that they are infused
with energy that can be released in movement (to
appear to be motionless is its own kind of intoxicating
movement) that the shape the movement takes is
beyond the fathoming of my mind's analysis but clear
to my eyes and rich to my imagination. In other words,
a man is a two-legged creature more basically and
72
The Impermanent Art
more intimately than lie is anything else. And Ms legs
speak more than they "know" and so does ail nature.
So if you really dance your body, that is, and not
your mind's enforcement the manifestations of the
spirit through your torso and your limbs will inevit-
ably take on the shape of life. We give ourselves away
at every moment. We do not, therefore, have to try to
do it. Our racial memory, our ids and egos, whatever
it is, is there. If it is there, it is there; we do not need
to pretend that we have to put it there. In one of my
most recent solo works, called "Untitled Solo," I
choreographed the piece with the use of "chance"
methods. However, the dance as performed seems to
have an unmistakable dramatic intensity in its bones,
so to speak. It seems to me that it was simply a ques-
tion of "allowing" this quality to happen rather than
of "forcing" it. It is this "tranquility" of the actor or
dancer which seems to me essential. A tranquility
which allows him to detach himself and thereby to
present freely and liberally. Making of himself such
a kind of nature puppet that he is as if dancing on a
string which is like an umbilical cord: mother-nature
and father-spirit moving his limbs, without thought.
My use of chance methods in finding continuity
for dances is not a position which I wish to establish
and die defending. It is a present mode of freeing my
imagination from its own cliches and it is a marvelous
adventure in attention. Our attention is, normally,
highly selective and highly editorial. But try looking
at events another way and the whole world of gesture,
the whole physical world in fact, is as if jabbed by an
electric current.
It has been a growing interest in "each thing-ness"
73
Merce Cunningham
that has led me to the use of chance methods in find-
ing dance continuity.* In my case, and for one partic-
ular work, this involved an elaborate use of charts
from which came the particular movements, the
rhythm (that is, the division and the duration of the
time they were done in), and the space they appear
in and how they divide it. There were separate charts
for each of the three elements,- movement, time, and
space. Then I tossed pennies to select a movement
from the movement chart, and this was followed by
tossing pennies to find the duration of that particular
movement, and following that the space and direction
of the movement were tossed for. This method might
lead one to suspect the result as being possibly geo-
metric and "abstract," unreal and non-human. On the
contrary, it is no more geometric than the lines of a
mountain are, seen from an airplane; it is no more
abstract than any human being is, and as for reality,
it is fust that, it is not abstracted from something else,
but is the thing itself, and moreover allows each
dancer to be just as human as he is.
One of the things that has interested me for a long
time, is how our balance works, not the fact that we
can balance in many different ways and so find out
how many ways, but just that we do balance at all,
and how. On two legs or one. Dancing has two things
in it: balance of the weight, and shift of that weight
in space and time, that is, in greater or smaller areas,
and over longer or shorter lengths of time. It depends
upon the flexibility of the architecture of the body.
* The actual technique of "choreography by chance'* is the
subject of an article by Remy CharHp in the January, 1954,
issue of Dance Magazine.
74
The Impermanent Art
The variety of that flexibility is limited only by the
imagination of the dancer and you can see where that
has brought us already. I suppose there are actually
relatively few movements that we do, and it's prob-
ably most pleasant for the dancer in his searching
for movement if he lights upon one of these in a
straightforward simple way. Lack of fullness in a
particular movement, or exaggeration of a movement
outside the particular limits of its own shape and
rhythm produces mannerism, I should think. And,
equally so, the fullest possible doing of a particular
movement with the minimum necessity of visible
energy and the clearest precision in each element of
that movement might possibly produce style. But
when this is allowed to go out the window for further
effect, prolongation of pose for bravura or other such
delights of the performer's ego, then the first thing lost
is serenity, and in the rush to catch up, the dancer
stumbles, expressively if not physically.
Buckrninster Fuller, the architect, once spoke of
his feeling that man had migrated around the globe
via two means: with the wind, that is under sail and
perhaps eastward generally; and against the wind,
that is across the land. This image of movement and
resistance somehow makes me think of how an idea
of mobile and static could be witnessed in the ways
a dancer can be trained. The prime motivation can
either be made a static one, that is by letting the position
of the torso come first within the possibilities of its
flexibility, and then to that adding the activity of the
legs, or the prime motivation can be put in the legs,
making a mobile situation upon which the back and
upper limbs rest. This all presumes that a relationship
75
Merce Cunningliam
runs up and down the spine into the arms and legs, to
begin with, and that the base of the torso where the
legs join the back both stops the action of the limbs
and allows it to continue. And the wondrousness of
being free and clear with both of these bodily com-
ponents at the same time!
But the pleasure of dance does not He in its analysis,
though one might sometimes be led to think other-
wise. Dancing is a lively human activity which by its
very nature is part of all of us, spectators and per-
formers alike. It's not the discussion, it's the doing
and seeing of whatever kind. As an adolescent I took
lessons in various forms of American popular stage
dancing including tap and a land of exhibition ball-
room. But my teacher insisted there was not such a
thing as just "tap/' there was "the waltz clog," "the
southern soft shoe,'" "the buck and wing," and all were
different, and she would proceed to show us how they
were different. The rhythm in each case was the in-
flecting force that gave each particular dance its style
and color. The tempo for a slower dance, for instance,
allowed for a certain weight and swing and stopping
of the arms that wasn't indicated in a faster dance.
These lessons eventually led to performances in
various halls as the entertainers for local events and
finally a short and intoxicating "vaudeville tour." I
remember one of these situations when we (there
were four of us), stood huddled and cold in a sort of
closet that was the lone dressing room, behind the tiny
platform that was the stage this time, and our teacher
was in the front of the hall making last minute prepa-
rations. Finally she hurried back, took one look at the
four of us, and smiled and said, "All right, kids, we
76
The Impermanent Art
haven't any make-up, so bite your lips and pinch your
cheeks, and you're on.' 7 It was a kind of theatre energy
and devotion she radiated. This was a devotion to
dancing as an instantaneous and agreeable act of life.
All my subsequent involvements with dancers who
were concerned with dance as a conveyor of social
message or to be used as a testing ground for psy-
chological types have not succeeded in destroying that
feeling Mrs. J. W. Barrett gave me that dance is most
deeply concerned with each single instant as it comes
along, and its life and vigor and attraction lie in just
that singleness. It is as accurate and impermanent
as breathing.
77
HENRY MILLER was born in
New York City in 1891. He
began writing at the mature
age of thirty-three. Living in
France from 1930 to 1939, he
gained much of his reputation
through the sale of his books
in France. Mr. Miller's books
include Tropic of Cancer,
Remember To Remember,
The Cosmoligical Eye. He has
lived in California since 1942.
When I Reach for my Revolver
The late John Dudley, descendant of the Earl of Essex,
once chalked up over my door: "When I hear the word
'Culture* I reach for my revolver." Today, when some-
one tries to tell me that Europe is finished, I have the
same impulse to reach for my revolver and plug him.
Nobody was ever more thrilled than I to read that
stupendous morphological, or phenomenological, tone-
poem called The Decline of the West. In the days
when Culture was only a bird in a gilded cage, the
days now so far off when I was eating my heart out
because I imagined I had already endured all the
sorrows of Werther, no music was sweeter to my ears
than this music of the end. But I have now outlived
the end Europe's end, America's end, all the ends,
including the end of the Golden West. I am no longer
living on clock-time nor daylight saving time nor
78
When I Reach for my Revolver
cyclical time nor even sidereal time. I see that the
dead are still with us, ready and willing to be sum-
moned from the grave any time; I see that the living
are one with the dead and having the devil's own time
shuffling all these corpses about I see that India and
China, supposedly dead for centuries, despite the
teeming millions they have been constantly spawning,
are now recognized as being alive, very much alive-
I might add, frighteningly alive.
I came back last August, after a seven months stay
abroad, feeling that if anything were dead and
finished it might be the American view of things.
Fresh from Europe, the American scene held about
as much charm for me as a dead rattlesnake lying in
the deep freeze. Why do we presume to think that we
are the one and only people? What can possibly give
us the idea that we are a vital, lusty, joyous, creative
people? Compared with the European, the American
strikes me as having the vivacity of a pall-bearer. He
comes alive only when he is quoting facts, and for
me his facts lack truth, wisdom and passion. His facts,
which are sterile, and his labor-saving machines,
which break his back they seem to go together.
Every time I am challenged about Europe, whether
I am in a mood to attack or a mood to defend, Wasser-
mann's words always sing out in my head. Waremme,
that astounding character which haunts the pages of
The Mauritius Case, had been saying that only after
renouncing Europe could a person of his sort begin to
understand what Europe really meant. Then comes
this passage: "Europe was not merely the sum total of
the ties of his own individual existence, friendship and
love, hatred and unhappiness, success and disappoint-
79
Henry Miller
merit; it was, venerable and intangible, the existence
of a unity of two thousand years, Pericles and Nostra-
damus, Theodoric and Voltaire, Ovid and Erasmus,
Archimedes and Gauss, Calderon and Diker, Phidias
and Mozart, Petrarch and Napoleon, Galileo and
Nietzsche, an immeasurable army of geniuses and an
equally immeasurable army of demons. All this light
driven into darkness and shining forth from it again,
a sordid morass producing a golden vessel, the catas-
trophe and inspirations, the revolutions and periods of
darkness, the moralities and the fashions, all that great
common stream with its chains, its stages, and its pin-
nacles, making up one spirit. That was Europe, that
was his Europe."
And we are supposed to believe that all is now over,
because after two devastating world wars Europe, to
our mind, seems listless, disinterested, cynical, skepti-
cal, because she objects to being bullied, cajoled,
threatened, bribed by our far-seeing statesmen, indus-
trialists, bankers and war-mongers? Every month some
well-known American author is being translated into
one of the numerous European tongues. Can any one
say that, taken as a whole, the works of our contem-
porary authors breathe optimism, wisdom, courage or
insight? Examine the works of those American authors
who won the Nobel Prize: do they reflect the spirit of
a young, ardent, up-and-coming race?
In Europe, with none o that security and physical
ease which Americans deem indispensable, I found
men and women pursuing their vocations just as pas-
sionately as when I lived there in the thirties. The crea-
tive spirits were even more creative than before, the
old men younger than ever, and the young men older
80
When I Reach for my Revolver
than ever. I no longer fear for the younger generation,
supposedly sad and disillusioned. Nor do I fear for
the old ones, because their time will soon be up. Con-
ditions being what they are, the young have every
right to be pessimistic, rebellious, and thoroughly dis-
interested in the empty promises of their governing
bodies. As for the old ones ? all of them living out a
glorious second youth, immune to world conditions,
concerned only with the grand problems, creating
with ever more freedom, daring and mastery, what
have we to fear for them unless it be our failure to
make use of the inspiration which their example
affords us? A man is not doomed in Europe because
he starts out on the wrong foot; a man is not finished
in Europe when he arrives at a certain age. Go through
the roster of the great names in European art; see
what towering monoliths it contains. And how many
of these illustrious ones only began their great works
in so-called old age!
From the standpoint of quality and production alike,
what monumental figures has France alone given the
world in the field of literature! And continues to give
the world. And what have American publishers given,
in translation, of the works of contemporary French
giants? How are we to know anything of the spirit
which informs Europe when we know hardly anything
of the works which their foremost creators are turning
out? If we are mere playthings, as we undoubtedly
are, in the hands of European diplomats, we are but
babes in arms when it comes to grappling with Euro-
pean literature. The respected European writer begins
on a level which our best writers seldom or never attain.
Limiting one's glance to book reviews alone, the dif-
81
Henry Miller
ference in tone, in reach, in judgment and in under-
standing, between our critics and theirs is incredible.
True, occasionally one of our celebrated writers knocks
out a sensational work, a shot in the dark, you might
say. He himself does not know how it was done. There
was no evolution preceding it and no sequel to follow.
It hangs in the void, like a landscape without fore-
ground or background. It just happened, et cest tout.
What is most comforting and sustaining about the
European scene is the feeling of continuity which
permeates even the stones of the buildings. An artist,
to survive, demands this atmosphere of continuity.
Contrary to what the unthinking believe, it is tradition
which nurtures change, tradition which nurtures revo-
lution, tradition which nurtures freedom of expression.
Sound the roll-call of the heretics, the free-thinkers,
the rebels, the pathfinders, the inconoclasts, and you
will find that they are in the tradition. In her two thou-
sand years of struggle, change and experimentation
Europe has experienced well-nigh everything. Along
with the flowers of culture she has accepted, perhaps
deliberately nourished, the weeds. There is still room
in Europe for all manner of growths. Even the obnox-
ious ones, I must confess, seem less obnoxious, less
dangerous, than the American variety. The European
does not expect every one to be alike and think alike.
He thrives on variety and contrarity. We, on the other
hand, grow panicky and hysterical when we discover
that all the world does not agree with us. We behave,
to the great dismay and disgust of the European, as if
we were the Chosen People.
All this struggle, turmoil and confusion naturally
creates a rich leaven for the European man of letters.
82
When I Reach for my Revolver
He Is not easily frightened of ideas nor paralyzed by
misfortune or defeat, nor silenced by bad government
or mis-government. Throughout the ages he has played
a part in every kind of communal experiment. Some of
the greatest figures have been, from the present stand-
point, on the wrong side of the fence, have espoused
the wrong cause. They remain great nonetheless. Their
works are studied and talked about. What a contrast,
this age-old Europe, to even that young America which
Charles Dickens described over a hundred years ago!
"I tremble.^ he writes, "for a Radical coming here, un-
less he is a Radical on principle, by reason and reflec-
tion, and from the sense of right. I fear that if he were
anything else he would return home a Tory ... I
say no more on that head for two months from this
time, save that I do fear that the heaviest blow ever
dealt at liberty will be dealt by this country, in the
failure of its example on the earth."
It was my good fortune, on returning to Europe this
year, to find some of my old friends still alive. Every
one of them had been through hell during the Occupa-
tion. Almost every one of them had been starved,
beaten, tortured, either by the enemy or by his own
people. I found them all, without exception, in good
spirits, working more assiduously and joyously than
ever before. To be truthful, they were all younger in
spirit than when I knew them before. They were not
turning out black, pessimistic, nihilistic works, as one
might imagine. Quite the contrary. I found none of
that Intolerance, bitterness, cynicism or paralysis which
some of my American friends warned "me to be pre-
pared for. It is true that, in order to continue their
chosen work, many of my old friends now found them-
83
Henry Miller
selves obliged to do all manner of drudge work as well.
One of them, a poet and playwright, confessed to me
that since the end of the war he had translated some
fifty full length books. (It is unnecessary, I hope, for
me to stress how miserably a translator is paid for his
workat home and abroad. ) But perhaps because they
had suffered so bitterly during the war, this additional
burden, this drudgery, no longer seemed the bugaboo
that it is to an American. They were all thankful to be
alive, grateful, despite their situation, to be able to
express their aliveness. Suffering and privation had
cured them of imaginary ills and of some very real ills
as well.
Certainly I do not wish to imply that war is a good
thing, neither for the artist nor for the general run,
not even for those who make it a profession. But it is
undeniable that those of my friends who survived the
war were strengthened by the experience. One of the
strongest contrasts I can think of between my artist
friends here and those abroad lies in this matter of
spirit and energy. The American writer, from what I
know of him through personal relations, is easily dis-
couraged. I am baffled sometimes to know why he ever
chose the pursuit of letters. He is certainly not in his
calling with both feet He is not "dedicated/' perhaps
that is the kindest way to put it. He is ready to re-
nounce his calling as soon as the pressure becomes too
hot. Part of the hopelessness and lisdessness of the
American writer is explainable by the attitude of the
public, for the American public seems not only to be
indifferent to the spiritual pabulum it receives but
actually prefers, if there is the slightest choice, physical
or material nourishment. And even here, in this matter
84
When I Reach for my Revolver
of physical and material comfort, the American is
utterly deceived, utterly deluded. I have only to think
of a day spent with any poor European artist and
how many I have known! to reaMze that the Ameri-
can is incapable even of enjoying the little which is
permitted him. ... I mean, his physical wealth. His
car may take him wherever he wishes to go, but what
is he met with on arriving at his destination? If it is
a restaurant, the food is usually unpalatable; if it is
a theatre, the spectacle bores him; if it is a resort,
there is nothing to do but drink. If he remains at home
with his friends the conversation soon degenerates into
a ridiculous argument, such as schoolboys enjoy, or
peters out The art of living alone, or with one's neigh-
bor, is unknown. The American is an unsocial being
who seems to find enjoyment only in the bottle or with
his machines. He worships success, but on attaining it
he is more miserable than ever. At the height of his
powers he finds himself morally and spiritually bank-
rupt; a cough is enough to finish him off.
During the course of my seven months abroad I vis-
ited quite a number of writers, painters, sculptors;
some were old friends, many were new ones, friends
I didn't know I had until we met. Now and then I ran
into an avowed enemy who usually ended up by be-
coming a friend. Most of these visits and encounters
took place in small towns, villages and hamlets, such
as Woluwe-St Lambert, Bruges, La Ciotat, Carcas-
sonne, Montpellier, Periguex, Les Eyries, Morgeat,
Lausanne, Vence, Seville, Wells (England). Corwen,
Wales, will remain especially engraved in my memory.
I had gone there expressly to pay a flying visit to John
Cowper Powys, a man now in Ms eighties. Here was
85
Henry Miller
an Englishman (of Welsh blood) who had spent over
thirty years of his life in America, "popularizing cul-
ture/ 7 as people fondly say. I had attended his lectures
in New York, when I was in my early twenties; I had
read a number of his books, and after a lapse of almost
twenty-five years I had started up a correspondence
with him. I deliberately make this digression to pay
tribute once again to a great spirit. Here is a man who
gave the best years of his life to America, who exerted
a considerable influence over many of our contempor-
ary writers and artists, and who some fifteen years or
so ago returned to his native heath, to a tiny, remote
village which none of the great world figures ever
penetrate. Here, year after year, he has been turning
out one profound, beautiful book after another, most
of them, I blush to say, unknown to our compatriots.
In this ripe spirit I found a man of letters who is in-
deed an honor to his calling, one of the few writers
alive, I might add, who can be looked upon as an ex-
ample to other writers. I can truly say of him that he
is the youngest, the most alive spirit I have ever
encountered. He has evolved a philosophy of his own
a philosophy of solitude or a philosophy of "in spite
of/* as he calls it which he practises and which keeps
him literally "as fresh as a daisy." He radiates joy and
well-being. He acknowledges as his sources of inspira-
tionHomer, Dante, Rabelais, Goethe, Shakespeare,
Dostoievsky, Walt Whitman. He introduces their
names frequently in his conversations and never tires
of quoting their words. He is not only the most tolerant
and gracious individual I ever met but, like Whitman
himself for whom he has the highest reverence a
man who has flowered from the roots. Though he
86
When I Reach for my Revolver
exudes culture and learning, he Is at home with chil-
dren, nobodies and idiots. His daily routine is so sim-
ple as to be almost primitive. It begins with a long
morning prayer for the protection of the creature world
against the sadistic men of science who torture and
vivisect them. Without wants he has become free as a
bird, and what is more important, he is acutely aware
of his hard-won freedom and rejoices in it. To meet
him is an inspiration and a blessing. And this man,
who has so much to give the world, who has already
given abundantly, indeed, is hardly known, hardly
ever mentioned, when the subject of letters comes up.
It ought to be written over his door, as coming from
the Lord Jehovah himself: "I am the one who fished
you out of the mud. Now you come here and listen
to me!"
If I had met only John Cowper Powys my trip
would have been amply justified. But I had the great
good fortune to meet other unique individuals, all of
them contributing to my enrichment, enjoyment and
understanding of life. Nowhere in Europe, even in the
enemy's camp, was I greeted with the silly, stupid,
pointless, and usually insulting queries which I am
accustomed to receiving from my American friends
and admirers. Even the Juge dlnstruction, before
whom I was obliged to appear before leaving Paris,
was more civil, tolerant and understanding of my work
than our pompous, fatuous American literary critics.
It was actually a pleasure to be questioned by such
a man, even though the subject was a painful one.
And what shall I say of Francis Raoul, Chef du Cabi-
net at the Prefecture de Police in Paris, whom I had
to seek out in connection with an extension of my visa?
87
Henry Miller
Show me Ms like in America! Show me the like,
among police authorities, of Fernand Rude at the
Sous-Prefecture in Vienne, where I spent hours look-
ing over his library, particularly his rare collection of
books dealing with Utopia, on which subject he is an
authority. It was at this man's home that I met for the
second time Dr. Paul-Louis Couchoud, who had once
been the private physician, secretary and friend of
Anatole France, Some may know him better as the
author of Le Dieu Jesus, Le Mystere de Jesus, Sages
et Poetes $Asie and other works. I shall always re-
member him as the serene, gentle spirit who graced
the table with his presence at the banquet offered a
few intimate friends by M. et Mme. Point of the Res-
taurant de la Pyramide in Vienne. Such a feast for
body and soul as the Points gave that day could never
have happened (for me) in any other setting. It was
something that heretofore I believed only the Romans
or the Greeks capable of creating.
But how many wonderful souls I met throughout
my journey! What marvelous days in the suburbs of
Brussels, chez Pierre Lesdain; what explorations and
feasts with his brother, Maurice Lambilliotte, the
editor of Syntheses; what illuminating talks in Peri-
gueux, Les Eyzies and Lascaux with Dr. de Font-
brane, the most brilliant of all the interpreters of
Nostradamus; what serene, joyous conversations with
Joseph Delteil of Montpellier, who gave us Cholera,
Sur La Fleuve Amour, Jeanne dArc, La Fayette, and
the book I particularly treasure De Jean-Jacques
Rousseau a Mistral. How easy and natural it was to
move with him from the beauty and glory of the
antique world to such subjects as Jesus, Socrates and
88
When I Reach for my Revolver
St. Francis of Assisi. And how natural again to con-
verse, as with a long lost brother, with that amazing
star of the cinema world, Michel Simon! Or shall I
speak of that Saturday afternoon at the home of Blaise
Cendrars, one of those giants of European literature
whose name is hardly known to Americans? Who
among us could "receive" in the manner of the inimi-
table Blaise? What a motley swarm of individuals
passed in and out of his rooms that day! And with
what warmth, vivacity, lucidity, urbanity and genuine
love of one's fellowman he greeted them all!
As I write, there lies before my eyes the November
issue of the monthly bulletin put out by the Guilde du
Livre in Lausanne. What a treat for the eyes to see
this little bulletin each month! Is there a Book Club
in America, or a publishing house large or small,
which issues anything comparable? If so, I have never
heard of it. The texts, the photos, the drawings, the
reproductions, the covers, the lists of books all is in-
timate, seductive, engaging in this bulletin. I made it
a point ? when in Lausanne, to call on Albert Mermoud,
director of the club. I wish the directors of American
book clubs would do the same we might have a
much needed change of diet.
I mentioned a moment ago the role of the public
vis-a-vis the writer. Certainly the European reader is a
different species than the American. He not only reads
more books than the American, he buys more. Every-
where I went books occupied a prominent place in the
home. And the owner knew Ms books, I might add.
I also had the impression that authors, living authors,
play a more important role in a man's life there. When
an injustice is dealt a writer by a court, a government,
89
Henry Miller
a publisher, or by another writer, the public may be
counted on to rush to the victim's defense. There are
literary disputes, in European countries, which liter-
ally rock the nation. With us only questions involving
the morals of an author seem capable of arousing
public attention, and it is then a sensational curiosity
which is inflamed and not a genuine, passionate in-
terest. American publishers and editors have done
their utmost to destroy taste, passion and discrimina-
tion in the reading public. The situation has deterio-
rated to such a point that reputable publishing houses
will often urge a new writer to permit one of their
staff to rewrite his book, pretending that such a pro-
cedure is in his own interests. A writer who is at all
different from the common run is virtually doomed.
Each house has its own idea of what is suitable or
saleable. To meet their varying demands the most
absurd, the most degrading demandsa young writer
can beat his brains out and get nowhere. The Euro-
pean publisher has his fixed ideas too, I am aware; he
too is also a businessman first and foremost, and a very
hard-headed one to boot But, he has a public to
reckon with. He is a part of that public, in a very real
sense. Besides, he is usually not just a business man,
any more than his authors are just writers. ( It is only
in our country, it seems to me, that a person can be
"just a business man" and not only be respected but
emulated.) Though he is no angel in disguise, the
European publisher has what might be called profes-
sional pride. I honestly believe the majority of them
would not be content to be merely "successful."
From all this an American writer may well be in-
clined to ask if he would have a better chance abroad
90
When I Reach for my Revolver
than here. My answer invariably is Yes! Yes, even if
he prove a failure. Because even as a failure he will
have enjoyed contact with other writers, other kindred
spirits, in an atmosphere here unknown an atmos-
phere, let me hasten to add, undoubtedly more glim,
more terrifying, more fecund, and ever so much more
real He will run every risk of starving to death, just
as here, but he will not necessarily feel like a fish out
of water, like a creature at the zoo, or like an escaped
inmate of a lunatic asylum. He will not die a freak or
a monstrosity, unless he possesses an unusual amount
of genius. Naturally, the more genius he has the
harder his lot will be. The world was not made for the
genius, we know full well. It may comfort him to
know, however, that if he has just the right amount of
genius he will eventually be given bread instead of
stones. Only in a few little countries, in this civilized
world, is there any semblance of protection or en-
couragement given the man of talent. Russia, like
America, to be sure, takes good care of those who toe
the line.
When all is said and done, the greatest writers and
the most prolific ones!~are still the French. Many
French writers, of course, just like many French paint-
ers, scupltors and musicians, are not French at all.
It is to the honor of France that she has incorporated
into her bloodstream so many diverse foreign ele-
ments. It is a curious thing, on the other hand, that
some of the most celebrated French writers give the
illusion of being un-French. I mean by that-Jif erent,
vastly different from their compeers. Here in America,
to be "different'* is almost tantamount to being a
traitor. Though our publishers will tell you that they
91
Henry Miller
are ever seeking "original" writers, nothing could be
farther from the truth. What they want Is more of the
same, only thinly disguised. They most certainly do
not want another Faulkner, another Melville, another
Thoreau, another Whitman. What the public wants,
no one knows. Not even the publishers.
In a profound sense every great artist is hastening
the end. A great artist is not simply a revolutionary, in
style, form or content, but a rebel against the society
he is born into. What he clamors for, avowedly or un-
avowedly, is a new deal in other words, freedom. His
idea of freedom is life lived imaginatively. This is the
real tradition sustaining art, this belief, this convic-
tion, that the way of art is the way out of the wilder-
ness. That it is, in short, the way of life. In no period
of man's history has this type of individual ever had
an easy time of it. For him the enemy is not without
the gates but within. He is always the alien, the pa-
riah, the disturber of the peace, the iconoclast and the
traitor. And always "the corrupter of youth." When-
ever the public loses faith in the artist, it is the artist's
fault It is his fault because it means that he has lost
sight of his high role. Lost faith in himself, in other
words. Who but the artist has the power to open man
up, to set free the imagination? The others priest,
teacher, saint, statesman, warrior hold us to the path
of history. They keep us chained to the rock, that the
vultures may eat out our hearts. It is the artist who
has the courage to go against the crowd; he is the un-
recognized "hero of our time" and of all time.
We are now deep in the period (which began with
the French Revolution) signalized by Nostradamus as
"the vulgar advent.' 7 Everything points towards a
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When I Reach for my Revolver
smash-up. Again and again the leaders of the world
have demonstrated that they are incapable of solving
the problems which beset us. To be more accurate, we
should speak of "the" problem, since it is the same
age-old one of how to live together on this earth in
peace and harmony. Grave and acute as the situation
now may be, it is probably not unprecedented in the
long, and mostly unknown, history of man. How many
times the current has been shut off, how many times
the light has gone out, no one knows. All we do know
for a certainty is that the creative spirit is incapable
of being annihilated. Man is capable of solving this
age-old problem, and far greater ones too. The artists
I take the liberty of calling them such who have
guided and inspired the race, the great spirits who
have kept the flame alive, have always made use of a
language which, because symbolic, had the flavor of
the eternal "My kingdom is not of this earth." That is
symbolic language, from the mouh of the greatest ar-
tist that ever lived. Unless an artist accepts these
words as his very own he is merely a dabbler, a maker
of words and not a creator. Which explains, perhaps,
why the very great have written little or nothing at all.
"What is the worst?" writes R. H. Blyth. "Sin, suffer-
ing, death. If only we can be lifted up by these waves,
instead of being submerged by them, we shall be free.
Free from what? Free from the illusion that we are
not free. Our illusions that we are not (now) free, are
our hopes. Our hopes, for a better condition than we
are now in, are not only the cause of grief, but the
grief itself." *
* Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics: The
Hokuseido Press, Tokyo, 1948.
93
Henry Miller
Let us face it ... what is the worst, for an artist?
To be silenced? I doubt it. One who is really a force,
a mouthpiece of God, will make himself heard without
opening his lips. But what a blow it would be, what
a masterful stroke, if by common consent the artists
all over the world would voluntarily silence them-
selves! It is, to be sure, an unthinkable situation. When
you say artist, alas, you say ego. Nevertheless, try to
think for a moment what absolute confusion, bewilder-
ment and bedevilment would ensue as a result of such
strategy. Think what it would be like to hear the
roar of the mob, nothing but this voice of the mob!
No doubt about it, the world would blow itself to
smithereens.
The European knows the power and the fury of the
mob; he has experienced it numerous times. America
has never known a revolution, or a great plague.
America has thus far kept the mob in hand, by delud-
ing it into believing that it is getting what it wants. As
Chesterton says somewhere: "Some beautiful ideal
runs through this people, but it runs aslant/" The last
World War, unspeakably hideous, was not waged by
barbarians; it was conducted by the foremost nations
of the world, the "cultured" nations. At least, the na-
tions engaged looked upon themselves as such. Is this,
then, the be-all and end-all of culture? Does it reach
its maximum of achievement in this unholy crusade of
mutual extermination? Wherein lies the mighty role
of art? Do artists also kill one another? They most cer-
tainly do. With few exceptions they too, in times of
panic, go the way of the mob, often aiding and abet-
ting the impotent puppets who unleash and direct the
94
When I Reach for my Revolver
slaughter. Admitting this, I nevertheless firmly believe
that no world order, no world harmony, is possible
until the artist assumes leadership. I mean by this that
the artist in man must come to the fore, over against
the patriot, the warrior, the diplomat, the fanatical
idealist, the misguided revolutionary. It is not against
the gods man must rebelthe gods are with him, if he
but knew itl but against his own mediocre, vulgar,
blighted spirit He must free himself to look upon the
world as his own divine playground and not as a bat-
tlefield of contending egos. He must lift himself by his
own bootstraps, so to speak. He must throw away
his crutches. Above all other men, the artist has this
power to free himself. More than any man he knows
that what he desires is attainable, that what he imag-
ines Is true and real, the only truth, the only reality.
His function is to imbue his f ellowman, by whatever
means he possesses, with this ineluctable view of
things. Let it not be said that he lacks the means. The
true artist will forge the means to make Ms message
transparent. No matter how black the picture may
look, he has everything on his side. He is the only
earthly being who Is truly sovereign, provided he ac-
knowledge to himself that the source of Ms power and
inspiration is divine and accessible to all.
Man has proved himself a thinker; man has proved
himself a maker; man has proved himself a dreamer.
He has yet to prove to himself above all that he is
completely man. Of what use the great religions, the
great philosophies, the sciences, the arts, of what use
the noble ideals every people has had them in turn
If we cannot make way for man? Where is man? What
95
Henry Miller
has become of him amidst his teeming creations? If
God is absent from man's work, how much more so is
man himself?
To travel about in Europe is a treat for an American
because it is like entering a honeycomb after a long
sojourn in the open desert. At every step one is made
aware of the continuous, persistent, indefatigable ef-
forts of this creature called man. It cries out from
architecture, paving blocks, monuments, landscapes,
factories, museums, libraries, schools, churches, for-
tresses, from everything one looks at or touches or
senses directly or indirectly. It makes itself felt even
in the air one breathes. Man the builder, man the
hunter, man the warrior, man the worshiper, man
the lover, man the maker of words and of music,
man the fabricator of the most subtle and the most
deadly essences, man the keeper and the prisoner
of man. Everywhere man, man, man: his work, his
achievements, his longings, his hopes, his dreams,
his failures, his deceptions and betrayals. Sometimes
he has worked for the glory of God, but more often
for the advancement of the devil. There he is, today
as of yore, squirming and twisting, elbowing his way,
wriggling through knotholes, tramping upon the dead,
taking advantage of the weak, pushing on, forever
pushing on, towards an invisible goal. The future. Al-
ways the bright future! Not for a moment can he cease
his activity, glorious or dismal though it may be. What
demon possesses him? To what end this frightful,
monstrous striving? Is he slaving to make the world a
better place? Is it for his progeny that he is concerned
or for himself? Whichever way he answers it is a lie.
He does not know why he struggles, or for what. He
96
When I Reach for my Revolver
is caught up in a mechanism which is beyond his un
derstanding. He marches on, head down, eyes closed,
conditioned so from birth. That is man, in the large-
European man, American man, China man, Soviet man,
man the world over, wherever there is culture and
civilization. And with all this "progress" he has not
advanced an inch. He stands at the same frontier he
faced fifty thousand, or a hundred thousand, years
ago. He has only to make a jump (Inwardly) and he
will be free of the clockwork. But he can't. He won't
With an obstinacy unthinkable he refuses to believe
in himself, refuses to assume his full powers, refuses
to raise himself to his ordained stature. He elects for
Utopia rather than Reality. He professes to believe
that things can be different by which he always
means "better** while remaining himself the same. He
has invented a complete catalogue of vile and scab-
rous epithets which he is ever ready to sling at those
who think and act differently, that is, think and act as
he himself would like to, if he had the courage. He
has created enemies out of thin air. He has voluntarily
enrolled in a phantom war which promises never to
end. He has, moreover, deluded himself into thinking
that this is the only right course to pursue. He would
convince the animal world of his truth and righteous-
ness, if he could. And wherever he appears or erupts
he leaves a scar upon the face of the earth. Now he
toys with the idea of harnessing the planets, as well as
the spaces between, in order to carry on his ghastly,
ghostly work of despoliation. Why does he stop at the
planets? Why not ransack the entire universe? What's
to hinder? Give him enough rope and, by God, he will
do just this. He is now at that ripe stage of devolution
97
Henry Miller
wherein he is foolish enough to believe that he can
take the universe apart and destroy it piece by piece-
just to prove to himself that he is not impotent. He
would unseat the Creator, if he had enough humility
left to conceive of something greater than himself.
In his steadfast march towards utter annihilation it
is conceivable that he will arrive one day at that quix-
otic point in time and consciousness when it will be-
come as clear as a bell to him that he has neither
created nor destroyed a blessed thing . . , not a thing.
. . . not even a speck, a crumb. All that he tor-
tured, maimed, butchered, annihilated (as he thought)
will then rise up before him and mock Mm. He will
stand alone in the great void, the supreme symbol of
hollowness and emptiness. And he will be seized with
such a panic that the shaking of his bones will sound
in his ears like the rattle of dice in a box.
And when, precisely, do you imagine all this will
take place? Why, any o'clock now. Is time so impor-
tant? He has already mutilated and butchered billions
of his kind, to say nothing of the birds and beasts, or
the microbes, or those devastating ideas which he
fears even more than microbes. Let him roam the
universe entire, armed with his puny inquisitional
weapons. What are another million years in the face
of self-discovery? Time is a hangman's rope. Let it
stretch wide and taut!
And you still think Europe is a better place for the
artist? Of course! Why not? Europe, Timbuctoo,
Easter Island, Patagonia, Beluchistan . . . what dif-
ference does it make? Anywhere but the place you re
in. That's present-day logic. Take your poor, weak,
suffering carcass and expose it to other germs, other
98
When I Reach for my Revolver
humiliations. Here you scratch yourself to death; there
you bite yourself to death. Where here, where there?
Why, anywJiere, of course. Know, to begin with, that
you are a martyr, and you will begin composing the
most heavenly songs. When you burn you will be able
to sing them with a will. For that is your lot, that is
your destiny. Thank the good Lord that you are not
as other men. Flaunt your otherness and you will earn
more stripes bloody ones, what I mean. Yours to howl
and gnash the teeth. Learn to do it well and you may
earn the Nobel Prize. And don't forget, when it comes
your turn to address the Royal Stocldiohn Academy,
that one of the great blessings of civilization is the
electric chair,
To come back to Europe . . . Europe, when one
lives it in the mind, is almost like any other place on
earth. The one difference, perhaps, is that in Europe
all these thoughts are familiar, all these thoughts can
and do find expression, or, now and again, suppression.
You can think almost anything, in Europe. You can be
almost anything there. Europe is a ferment, a constant
ferment And where there is constant ferment it mat-
ters little whether you are at the bottom or the top.
The important thing is to realize that it is an intan-
gible, spiritual crucible which is in ferment and not an
atomic energy plant.
In that biographical rhapsody called Napoleon, in
which Elie Faure gives us an awesome glimpse into
the soul of Europe its hidden fires, its frenzied strug-
gles, its meteoric illuminations, its incorrigible anarchy
there comes a passage which goes thus:
"1 do not think that Napoleon ever indicated an ideal
aim to reach, an aim demanding belief in one of the
99
Henry Miller
entities justice, liberty, happiness with which it is so
easy to stir the multitudes. He consistently addressed
himself to their latent energy, which he developed by
the most virile means, to their sense of honor, which
he invoked, to their spirit of emulation, which he
exalted. The social optimism of popular leaders, on
the other hand, the optimism which holds before the
people a metaphysical or social idol for them to cap-
ture, demands an immediate abdication of their own
liberty. In order to make others believe, they, the
leaders, must believe in realities situated outside them-
selves and accessible to all, not by means of personal
risk and personal effort but by submission to a certain
number of commands, to transgress which is repre-
sented as a crime. . . ."
Once again the herd is ready to stampede. Beneath
all the ferment there is an ominous silence, an attitude
of lying in wait, like a beast of prey, Europe is ready
to spring into action but very likely in a direction
which no one at present can possibly suspect. Today,
seemingly exhausted, obviously divided, without lead-
ership and with no clear apparent goal, she seems ut-
terly ineffectual. The error which realists are only too
prone to make is to confound the apparent with the
actual. Europe is quite capable of making a volte-face
overnight Even in her present state of bewilderment
and anguish, with nothing to salve her wounded pride,
Europe possesses sufficient poise, sufficient equilib-
rium, to make the most momentous decisions. Let us
not forget that all the striking figures in European his-
toryand what a galaxy they represent have been
individuals, men and women, endowed with extraor-
dinary imagination. It is a gift revealed as much in a
100
When I Reach for my Revolver
St Francis as in a Napoleon, in a Dante as in a
Rabelais, in a Marquis de Sade as in a Joan of Arc.
The daring which made the great saints, the great
heretics, the great scientists, the great philosophers,
the great artists, the great "poets of action," is a per-
manent attribute of the European soul Without it, no
Europe.
If there is one thing that permeates Europe through
and through it is art. This constant communication
with the spirit pervading all life renders Europe at
once potent and vulnerable. The dilemma now facing
her makes it imperative to see it through in her own
way that is, passionately, poetically, recklessly or
compromise and go the way of the Gadarene swine.
My belief is that she will follow the dictates of her
own artistic conscience. My conviction is that by
means of the particular creative energy which is dis-
tinctly hers she will ind a solution to the dilemma, a
solution, needless to say, bouleversante for the rest of
the world.
The day of wrath is upon us. The way has been
shown us again and again, but we have chosen to walk
in darkness. When the lights go out let us be thankful
if we have left enough inner radiance to glow like the
glow-worm, We have made too much and too little
of the dazzling light of genius. For ages we have been
content to bathe in the sputtering phosphorescence
which our men of genius have given off. We have sat
back and watched the spectacle instead of taking fire
ourselves. And finally we have substituted a cold fire
that nothing might be harmed, nothing destroyed, by
sparks of ecstasy or of madness.
"Woe to them that go down to Egypt for help; and
101
Henry Miller
stay on horses, and trust in chariots, because they are
many; and in horsemen, because they are very strong;
but they look not unto the Holy One of Israel, neither
seek the Lord!"
Thus singeth Isaiah Chapter 31, Verse 1.
But I say unto you: "Even though all our creations
be brought to nothingness, even though the good
perish with the wicked, even though the prophets
themselves be silenced, nothing will prevent the com-
ing of Eon!"
102
SIGFRIED GIEDION was born
in Switzerland, in 1893. He
has been General Secretary of
the International Congresses
for Modern Architecture since
1928. Mr. Giedion lias taught
at Harvard and written and
lectured extensively. His clar-
ity 7 and keen insight have
made him an eminent figure
in architecture. His book Time
and Architecture is one of the
most valued books in the field.
The State of Contemporary Architecture
THE REGIONAL APPROACH
The state of contemporary architecture today is such
that a historian is compelled to refer back to points
that, one could have thought, had been made abun-
dantly clear many years ago. But during recent years
the origins of contemporary architecture, and indeed
its very nature, have again become clouded and con-
fused. No single country, no single movement, no sin-
gle personality can be claimed to explain the coming
about of contemporary architecture. Trends shuttle to
and fro, from one country, one movement, one person-
ality to another, and become woven into a subtle pat-
tern that portrays the emotional expression of the
period.*
* From Architectural Record, January, 1954.
103
Sigfried Giedion
There is a word that we refrain from using to de-
scribe contemporary art. This is the word "style." In a
primitive sense the word "stylus" was used even in
Roman times to describe different manners of writing
but "style" did not come into general use to describe
specific periods until the 19th century, when different
periods of architecture were analyzed according to a
materialistic description of details of form. Today, the
moment we fence architecture in within a notion of
"style" we open the door to a purely formalistic ap-
proach. Purely formalist comparisons have about the
same effect on the history of art as a bulldozer upon a
flower garden. Everything becomes flattened into
nothingness, and the underlying roots are destroyed.
The architect of today regards himself not merely as
the builder of an edifice, but also as a builder of con-
temporary life. In other words the architect of today
refuses to consider himself a mere confiseur (pastry-
cook) employed to attach some trimmings within and
without after the structure has been delivered to him
by the engineer. No, the architect has himself to con-
ceive it as an integrated whole. Like all real artists, he
has to realize in advance the main emotional needs of
his fellow citizens, long before they themselves are
aware of them. A wholeness, a togetherness of ap-
proach, has become a "must" for any creative spirit.
All this is involved in the reason why we today ab-
stain from labelling the contemporary movement with
the word "style." It is no "style" in the 19th century
meaning of form characterization. It is an approach
to the life that slumbers unconsciously within our
contemporaries.
104
The State of Contemporary Architecture
It seems and this cannot be too often repeated
ai^ art Eave^as
EKeir commc^^
different th_e. move-
one another. This
contrasteTunHamehtally
with the Renaissance perspective and the consequences
that developed from its single focal point.
It has been stated over and over again indeed I
have said it myself that it is the plane, which earlier
had lacked any emotional content, that has become
the constituent element of our new representation.
Futhennorejhere is no doubt that the use of theplane
as jajmeans of expression was evolved from cubism be-
to^m jglOjnd^WW. On two pages of Space, Time 6-
Architecture (page 362-363) I tried to show how the
same spirit emerged in several different countries, by
presenting a visual comparison of a collage by Braque,
a painting by Mondrian, an architectural study by
Malewich, a country house by van Doesburg and
van Eesteren, and Gropius' Bauhaus.
The art magazines have recently been stressing that
"the right angle and primary colors used with black,
white and gray, disposed in an asymmetrical arrange-
ment" were the basic elements of "de StijU" This fac-
tual analysis is perfectly correct as far as it goes, but
it does not touch the reason behind the use of these
simple elements the essential heart of the matter
which "de StijT shared in common with the whole
contemporary movement. This was the introduction of
the plane as a constituent element to express the new
anti-renaissance space conception. The right angle, the
105
Sigfried Giedion
vertical, and to a certain extent the primary colors
are by-products and not essential features of the mod-
ern conception.
It is well known that the "de StijF people around
van Doesburg never formed themselves into a formal
group, as for example the Futurists did. "De SujT con-
sisted of various individualists working in different
places. There was sometimes a certain amount of col-
laboration, as at one time between Doesburg and Oud,
and, in the twenties, between Doesburg, the young
van Eesteren and Rietveld. But on the whole they re-
mained individualists. J. J. P. Oud (whose early ac-
complishments will always form part of the history of
architecture) is typical of these individualists. When
I met him for the first time in 1926 he even then em-
phasized "I was never a member of *de StifL* '* And, in
his own way, Piet Mondrian (who called his work
"neo-plasticism") expressed a similar standpoint. It
was indeed just this free cooperation of strong individ-
ualists, often in dissension with one another, that gave
the Dutch movement its undeniable mental strength.
The word "style" when used for contemporary archi-
tecture is often combined with another password label.
This is the epithet "international/' It is quite true that
for a short period in the twenties the term "inter-
national" was used, especially in Germany, as a land
of protest to differentiate contemporary architecture
from "Blut and Boden" advocates who were trying to
strangle at birth anything and everything imbued with
a contemporary spirit. But the use of the word "inter-
national" quickly became harmful and constantly shot
back like a boomerang. "International" architecture
"the international style" so went the arguments, is
106
The State of Contemporary Architecture
something that hovers in mid-air, with no roots any-
where.
All contemporary architecture worthy of the name
is constantly seeking to interpret a way of life that
expresses our period. If history teaches us anything it
is that man has had to pass through different spiritual
phases of development, just as, in prehistoric times, he
had to pass through different physical stages. There
are some signs that go to show that a certain cultural
standard is now slowly encompassing the entire world.
In historic periods cultural areas have usually been
more limited in extent, but in the prehistoric era the
hundreds of thousands of years of dark ages we find
everywhere the hand axe, the coup de poing. This
hand axe is a universal, triangular, pear-shaped tool
whose sides slope to a fine edge. It has been found in
China, in Africa, in the gravel bed of the Somme in the
heart of France, in the Ohio valley. Everywhere this
flint implement was shaped the same, as though the
wide-flung continents had been neighboring villages.
The way of life that is now in formation is a product
of the mentality of Western man. Again, as in the time
of Neanderthal man, it passes round the whole world,
only now the tempo is vastly accelerated and the
speed has become excessive.
When I had recently to write a short foreword for a
Japanese edition of Space, Time 6- Architecture I
somehow felt it my duty to explain that Western man
has now, very slowly, become aware of the harm he
has inflicted by his interference with the way of life of
other civilizations: whether it has been interference
with the natural rhythms of the lives of primitive peo-
ples, which have been the root cause of their bodily
107
Slgfried Giedion
and mental persistence since prehistoric times; or
whether it has been an injection of the rational West-
ern mentality into the oldest existing civilizations,
without also presenting any worthy antidote. But,
even while writing this, I was obliged to add that
Western civiKzation is itself ^actually in a stage of
' showmg^usTKaf "9ie
rationalist and
^J[atestjphasejof Western civilization hasHbeen
Full realization of this~?aet
s a new hybri<Td^vdopment
^
-
Now that we no longer adhere toT3ee3 of produc-
tion for production's sake, the civilization that is now
in the making draws closer to the mental outlook that
is shared by primitive man and Eastern man. We in
the West are again becoming conscious of something
that they never forget: that the continuity of human
experience always exists alongside and in contrast to
our day-to-day existence.
This may serve to strengthen a realization that the
image of this emerging civilization, especially our par-
ticular interest the form of contemporary architecture
cannot be described by so drained and bloodless a
term as an "International Style/' Moreover the term
itself is a complete misnomer, as is the case with many
other "styles." Jjjus^well known for instance that the
tera^^otibic Style" when "usecl irf the 18th century
^?ISi^ed^aJomi oTTafBari^n.'" It was" only after Ihe
English, had i^^^e^^J^^c^sTi^S^OK
used as ^ iem_oL^M^S^^^^^ ^61^ "first
psed jo^ descri^ jpmjsth^
pjLundis,ciEl|neA .j^t^jf^^klt^were only appled
108" ^ " ~""" "
The State of Contemporary Architecture
by later generations. The architects of the Gothic or
BS-oqu^penoHs^g^e no stylistic names to their build-
ings. They just built, as they had to build, in a con-
temporary mannerand so do we! So let us drop, once
and for all, such misleading formalist designations.
It is true that our period, just like past periods, has
a common mental outlook and a commonly recognized
method of expressing its emotional content. As the out-
look changes, our attitude towards our environment
the region or country in which our structures are rising
also changes. Contemporary architecture and paint-
ing are embraced by a pervading mentality the spirit
of this period. But from out the innumerable possi-
bilities of each region, each period selects just those
which correspond with, or help to express, its own spe-
cific emotional needs. Now that we are separated by
several decades from the birth period of the early
twenties, we are able to discern that certain regional
habits and regional traditions lay concealed within the
germinal nuclei of various contemporary movements.
Two examples, one from Holland, the other from
France, may serve to make this point clear. First, Hol-
land. When we look at a painting by Mondrian or at
one of van Doesburg's architectural schemes their ab-
stract forms (Mondrian called them "neutral forms")
seem very far removed from any specifix regional
influence. They seem so, but they are not
At the Congress of Art Critics in Amsterdam in 1951,
for which the **de StijT exhibition was first assembled,
I was asked to speak on this movement Eietveld, who
was in the audience, sprang to his feet and sharply
protested when I tried to show the inner ties that exist
between Dutch tradition and these so-called "neutral
109
Sigfried Giedion
forms": how, in fact, these forms are rooted in the
Dutch region and in the Dutch mentality.
In the 17th century the great age of Dutch painting
suc &
ne surfaces of interior walls, or of the
o^
ilarly one can note today the careful manner
in which the Dutch gardener lays out his fields of red,
white and yellow tulips. Certainly I would never wish
this to be interpreted as though I were explaining
Mondrian's paintings as reproductions of tulip fields!
Butj^ ^dojsiintain _ tiiat_^_^gajdzed^2i22surf ace is
in no other country so prevalent as here, in-SieTegion
of JiEeTFoIders/ It "is l^t^mei^cES^eTSBTneifKeT the
Russians, nor Germans, nor French made such use of
the plane surface, framing it and extracting it from
innumerable details. The plane surface, for reasons
which do not need to be reiterated, is a constituent
element of contemporary art: and it seems to me that
van Doesburg's and van Eesteren's simple drawings of
the transparent interior of one of their projected houses
is one of the most elucidating achievements of "de
StijI," and one which helped enormously to clarify the
minds of their contemporaries in other countries.
France's contribution comes from another source.
Ever since her daring experiments in Gothic cathe-
drals, France has shown a great facility and a great
eagerness to experiment with new forms of structure.
We have only to recall the Halle des Machines or the
Eiffel Tower of 1889; and here it is interesting to note
that the painter Delaunay (a representative of the so-
called "orphic cubism") was first inspired by Gothic
110
The State of Contemporary Architecture
churches (1909) and later by the structure of the
Eiffel Tower whose poetic content was first revealed by
him and the poet GuiUaume Apollinaire.
France's early and extensive use of ferroconcrete as
a means of architectural conception is only one more
link in the same chain. Already around 1900 Tony
Gamier, in his Prix de Rome project, used the new
construction method of .fOTOcraa^tejD L j]is - Crte In-
dustrieUe for all kinds of buildings. Ferret soon fol-
lowed with his Paris houses, garages, theaters; and one
of Le Corbusier's first sketches of the ferroconcrete
skeleton construction for the House Domino ( 1915 ) is
as revealing as van Doesburg's sketch with its inter-
secting planes.
These are but two examples of regional contribu-
tions to a universal architectural conception. But one
thing more: it has not been necessary for the architect
to be a native of the country in which he is working
in order to be able to express its specific conditions.
We all know howJFra^_ i J. : Jpyd Wright's Imperial
than
Japanese structures. The reason is the modern ap-
siderations* Itjdeak^4sdttL_aternal facts. It has been
There
iT~aIsoa great apparent difference between a wide
open redwood or ferroconcrete house built in the
kindly homogenous climate of California and a week-
end house built for the tropical conditions of Brazil
In form these two houses, built by Richard S. Neutra
111
Sigfried Giedion
and Oscar Niemeyer, have practically nothing in com-
mon, yet both are imbued with the same contemporary
spirit. Formalistic analysis will not help us here.
I would like to give a name to the method of ap-
proach employed by the best contemporary architects
when they have to solve a specific regional problem-
such as a building for the tropics or the West Coast,
for India or for South America whether it is for a
house, a government center or a problem in urbandsm.
I am thinking of some walk-up apartments built in
Morocco by Candilis and Woods for a very poor popu-
lation who now live, as in Brazil and other tropical
climates, in "bidon-villes" or tin shacks made from old
gasoline cans. In this case the problem was the erec-
tion of several thousand dwellings very rapidly, very
cheaply and employing only the simplest techniques.
Each dwelling has two bedrooms that open onto a patio
living room surrounded by a six foot wall that insures
privacy for the family. Great care is taken to see
that every comer of the dwelling is at some time
penetrated by the bacteria-destroying beams of the sun.
In some row houses built in Cuba by Wiener and
Sert for the better paid workers, no glass is used,
but instead a modern version of the lattice-like open-
ings common around the Caribbean. Each dwelling
has two bedrooms and a living room that is wide open
to a private patio. The neighborhood unit model foi
8,000 inhabitants shows how these simple units can
be variously grouped.
Example^ juchasjhese^nnply that Ihe^modera archi-
tect shjojLLldjpot strive to produce_an_externaJ: jigpear-
with traditicxnal^buikfiigs,. Some-
112
\
EDGAR DEGAS
Portrait
ex
O
w
O
GEORGES ROUAULT
Christ Head
JACQUES VILLON
Uy Brother Marcel Duchainp
AMEDEO MODIGLIANI
Cariatide
PABLO PICASSO
Mother and Child
MARC CHAGALL
The Artist 9 s Inspiration
HENRI MATISSE
Vase et Grenades
ANDRE MASSON
The Artist's Sons
MARCEL GROMAIRE Three Nudes in a Landscape
PABLO PICASSO
The Artist and the Model
%. f " "T*SBn'r V^v
MUSIC
JOHNNY FRIEDLAENDER
The Woman and Cat
GOMERY
Man and Horse
^V'
PAUL KLEE
Harlequin on a Bridge
GEORGES BRAQUE
La Femme a la Toilette
PIERRE BONNARD
Vollard
ROGER DE LA FRESNAYE
Man with Pipe
JULES PASCIN
Model
V. KASIULIS
The Model
MICHAEL ARAM
Mother and Child
HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC
The Passenger
MARC CHAGALL
Wedding under the Canopy
DANY
Flowers
CLAVE
Gargantua
RAYMOND GUERRIER
Vue of Paris
PIGNON
The Man and the Child
JACQUES LIPCHITZ
Sketch for Sacrifice
; v
v \
HENRI MATISSE
Self Portrait
MARINO MARINI
Boy with Two Horses
HENRI DE TOULOUSE-LAUTREC Ivette Guilbert
I
U
i (
tf
P
1
PC
MARCELLO MASCHERINI
Man and Horse
THEODORE ROSZAK
Skylark
UMBERTO MASTROIANNI
Woman
MORLEY TROMAN
Embrace
HENRI LAURENS
Myrmidia
H. BENCHES
Torso
JOSE DE CREEFT
Voluptas
AMEDEO MODIGLIANI
Head
HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON
Georges Rouault
FERNANDO PUMA
Dancer at Rest
ROGER DE LA FRESNAYE
Man with Pipe
ERNST HAAS
Positano
P/iofo &y Gerda Peterich
Merce Cunningham
THE ACROPOLIS
Athens
CHARLES EDOUARD LE CORBUSIER Marseilles Building
The State of Contemporary Architecture
times the new buildings will conform to a certain
extent, sometimes they will be basically different. This
difference may be due to two reasons: sometimes it
will be because of new production methods and the
use of new materials; sometimes, more importantly, it
will be caused by the new aesthetic, the new emotional
expression, that the builder is giving to the habitat
of man.
The regional approach that satisies both cosmic and
terrestrial conditions is a developing trend, but there is
also another symptom that is emerging, and that hints
at the many-sided face of contemporary architecture.
In contemporary painting many problems come for-
ward which can also be discerned in the earliest begin-
nings of art. Architecture is different from painting; it
is not so intimately related to man's direct projection
of what flows in the subconscious mind, Yet we cannot
leave unnoticed a certain symptom which has been
appearing in architecture, above all in the recent work
of Frank Lloyd Wright (especially since 1940). We
can now follow the exciting path that the human mind
had to travel before he came to standardize (if we may
call it this) upon the rectangular house with its square
or rectangular rooms. We are all born with this rec-
tangular house and are so accustomed to live with it
that it seems it could never have been otherwise. Yet
it is important that an artist like Frank Lloyd Wright
is plunging so deeply into problems that concerned the
human spirit at a time when mankind was contem-
plating the transition from the nomadic herdsman to
the settled agriculturalist.
At the very beginning of architecture the paramount
type was not the square house, but the curvilinear
113
Slgfried Gledion
housesometimes round, sometimes oval, sometimes
freely curving. Now it tries to make a reappearance.
Sometimes this is dictated by mechanistic reasons:
such as the mast house of Buckminster Fuller, or the
use of a central mechanical core. But Wright follows
exclusively the line of his artistic vision, maybe
adapted to the site, maybe adapted to the man who is
to inhabit the house, maybe under the compulsion of
expressing that which slumbers in himself. It is not
my intention to discuss the pros and cons of this kind
of contemporary architecture, but it seems a duty
not to ignore it.*]VVhatwe ne^^
thing elsejsji^^^
for a later article.
114
THEODORE ROETHKE was
bom in Michigan, in 1908.
He has taught at Lafayette,
Pennsylvania State and Ben-
nington. At present he is a
professor of English at the
University of Washington,
Seattle. Mr. Roethke has re-
ceived two Guggenheim Fel-
lowships and an award from
the American Academy of
Arts and Letters. His poetry
appears in many important
magazines, and he has had
four books of poetry pub-
lished.
A Rouse for Stevens
TO BE SUNG IN A YOUNG POETS SALOON
Wallace Stevens: What's he done?
He can play the Flitter-Flad;
He can see the Second Son
Spinning through the Lordly Cloud;
He's Imagination's Prince;
He can plink the Scitter-Bum;
How he does the Lonely Buzz:
Brings the Secret: right in There!
Wallace, Wallace, Wo ist er?
Never met him, Dutchman dear.
If I ate and drank like him,
I would be a Chanticleer.
(Together)
" Speak it from the face out clearly,
Here's a Mensch but can sing dandy:
Er ist niemals ausgepoopen,
Alies wunderkind.
(Audience)
Roar *em, whore *em, cockalorum,
The muses, they must all adore him!
Wallace Stevens, are we for him?
Brother, he's our father!
117
FERNANDO PUMA
The Creator's Challenge
Ca6 Filtre is black and the tang and odor are strong.
It awakens the senses quickly. The stove lit, I wind
my way down from my Paris atelier on Rue De Seine.
Directly across the narrow street is Gallery P. It is the
most successful left bank gallery. Today three huge
paintings hang in the windowsone a fifth-rate copy
of Jackson Pollock (dripped by a Canadian, in Paris,
soon to exhibit in New York); a black and red imita-
tion of Chinese calligraphy; and a sad, dark spot,
called color, on a white canvas. These insipid color
patchworks are typical of paintings seen in London,
Paris, Rome, New York, et al. Decorative fabric de-
signs or meaningless explosiveness is the academy of
the 195ffs. However, true art is not of the moment.
Seer P exhibited Miro and Picasso long ago, so now
he is a high priest of the Cult If a painter is a member
of the Automatic or Geometric Tribe, his existence is
assured. Yet, Abstractionism is a la mode now.
This reminds me of the Pierre Matisse Gallery. In
1942 in New York, when I was a radio art critic, the
Matisse Gallery moved to new quarters in the Fuller
Building on East 57th Street I was invited, along with
the seventy odd other critics, museum directors, col-
lectors and artists, to the opening cocktail party. The
room was crowded and the hum of vibrant, stimulating
118
The Creators Challenge
conversation buzzed as the martinis flowed. As at
openings, few people looked at the paintings. r .
walls sparkled with Chagalis, Picassos, Miros, Mat
and a beautiful sensitive Modigliani. Suddenly I
came ill, not from over-imbibing, but as I lool
around the room and listened to the gay chatte
noticed that the museum people were joking with
museum people (the same ones they had been we
ing with an hour before), the collectors were comi
ing notes with the collectors and the critics \v
expressing enigmatic witticisms to each other,
artists, like Alice in Wonderland, were wandering
themselves. Marc Chagall, eyes bright, leaned aga
a side wall, a wistful smile on his lips. Not one gi
spoke to him during the entire party!
These stories, twelve years apart, somehow con
the duplicity in the art world. There is a tremend
distance between those who buy and/or present ,
those who create. The creator paints a picture, o
poses a symphony, writes a noveL He is sucked
with birthing. Bang! Bang! Time is not clocl
energy not spared, health not guarded. Anything
pull the subconscious and awaken the depth wit
and spew out golden nuggets. Then he is forcec
spend himself in a succession of traumatic experien
He must meet Mr. Right. Everybody must find
Bight. Mr. Right presents and sells. Love, not moi
must be the basis for a happy marriage. And love,
mercenary gain, must be behind the producer,
gallery owner, the publisher. Oh, to find the man
hind the scenes who understands and possesses
intuitive knowledge of the future! This is rarity it
Art is an international canon of truth. Now, n
119
Fernando Puma
than ever, genius spends Itself on worry and selling
and publicity. Rebellious ego becomes trademark.
Humility is forced into the background. Dr. Kinsey
writes that males reach, their sexual peak at about
eighteen years of age and thereafter steadily decline.
There is truth too, that during youth there is a biologi-
cal connection between sex and creating. The creative
talent in the arts generally starts to weaken after f orty,
just when the artist is becoming known and recog-
nized. It often takes ten to fifteen years of struggling,
destroying and rebuilding before the violins play the
victor's march, and the public pays homage. Beethoven
wrote Ms Eroica before he was thirty-four; Mozart
was creating beautiful music before he was twenty;
Wagner wrote Tannhauser and Lohengrin in his thir-
ties and was barely forty when he began working on
The Ring. Van Gogh, Seurat, Lautrec created all their
masterpieces in their twenties and thirties. Shake-
speare wrote As Jou Like It and Hamlet before he
reached forty. It is well known Schopenhauer finished
and published The World As Will and Idea at thirty-
one; and Spinoza began his brilliant work in his early
twenties.
It is not that a creator's intellectual or emotional
powers are less after forty, but the pressure of living,
physical hardships, a wife, perhaps children, and the
constant carping and insensate stupidities of the vul-
gar, begin to take their toll. All true creators should be
free of marital ties and financially solvent. The com-
petitive striving should be for the highest form of
creation; indolence would not be tolerated by fellow
artists. How necessary to tinker, to explode, to boil and
120
The Creators Challenge
bubble! The world has still such fire and beauty, such
magical and significant art, to behold and enjoy.
The creator is alone. He travels worn paths with
gloss feet and spins a web to bridge the gaps between
knowing and knowing. He seeks the uncommon. He
strips himself naked and lets the rain wash away grime
and stereotyped thoughts. He loves the exotic, even
erotic, forces the stress and strain to cut scythe-like
through commonplace thoughts. Today, more than
ever, the creator is forced to live a multiple existence.
Traveling through England one is astonished by the
achievements the Arts Council has brought about in
nine years. Starting in 1945, the English gave love and
care and have nurtured their creative talents like ex-
alted roses. The land of Shakespeare, Chaucer and
Milton has bred new dancers, actors, who bring hap-
piness and culture to the people. Now the government
allocates nearly $2,000,000 yearly to the council and
this sustains and brings a richer way of living. Since
the English form of government and the mores of the
people are so close to our own, this quotation from
the Arts Council Booklet is pertinent:
"Although the Council's terms of reference cover
the whole field of fine arts, in practice it Kmits its
activities to music, opera, ballet, drama, poetry, paint-
ing and sculpture. As far as possible, it works through
existing bodies connected with the promotion and per-
formance of the arts; but, where no organization exists
that can supply a local need, the Council itself is some-
times prepared to do so; and in such cases the net
receipts of the events provided accrue to the Council's
funds.
121
Fernando Puma
"Concerts are organized from headquarters, the
Scottish and Welsh Offices and the English regional
offices, in places where it appears likely that such
pioneer work will arouse interest and stimulate local
activity.
"?oetni Readings are occasionally organized in a
similar way.
"Play Tours are sent out from London and from
other centers to various parts of the country where
theatres are few and opportunities for seeing stage
performances scanty. Stress is laid on building up Rep-
ertory Companies of high standard; and in certain
cases the Council has taken the initiative in setting up
Repertory Theatre Companies as a step towards the
establishment of civic theatres. Wherever direct action
is taken, it is the Council's purpose that such activities
shal eventually be taken over by independent local
enterprises.
"Aft Exhibitions are the Council's main activity in
the visual arts. The average number of exhibitions in
circulation at one time is about sixty. In a single year
109 different exhibitions have been shown in 255
places. These vary in size and importance from major
international exhibitions such as French Tapestries,
Van Gogh, Masterpieces from Alte Pinakotheka at
Munich and Treasures from Vienna, to modest exhibi-
tions, sometimes of reproductions instead of original
works., which can be shown in places where there is
no public gallery. With few exceptions, every exhibi-
tion is accompanied by a catalogue, which often con-
tains many illustrations, and essays or notes by ac-
knowledged experts embodying the results of original
research. The services of guide lecturers are available.
122
The Creators Challenge
The Council and its Scottish and Welsh Committees
also buy pictures, sculpture and examples of graphic art
from living artists for inclusion in its exhibitions.
"Do these concerts, poetry readings, play tours, di-
rectly managed repertory companies, and exhibitions
represent the greater part of the Council's work? In
terms of finance they represent less than one-quarter
of the money the Council spends on the arts. The re-
maining three-quarters is paid in the form of grants,
guarantees and loans to independent organizations.
"The Council works in association with certain na-
tional institutions such as the Royal Opera House,
Covent Garden, the Sadler's Wells Foundation, the
Old Vic, and the permanent symphony orchestras, and
also certain festivals and provincial theatre repertory
companies. These institutions and companies must
satisfy the Council that they are properly constituted
bodies or charitable trusts which exist to provide artis-
tic service to the community, and that they have been
accepted by Her Majesty's Board of Customs and Ex-
cise as being not conducted or established for profit
and have been exempted by it from liability to pay
Entertainments Duty. Financial arrangements of vary-
ing kind and degree may be made with each associ-
ated company; and for each the Council is prepared
to act as sponsor with Government Departments and
public bodies, testifying to the value of the work done
in the interest of the nation."
In France there are government supported theatres
-The Comedie Francaise and TNR Both the Opera
and Opera Comique receive complete support as
well. These institutions are in Paris and are enjoyed
by all the people, for the prices are comparatively low.
123
Fernando Puma
At the Opera tickets range from 300 francs to 1300
francs (S5^ to $3.75).
The arts are an integral part of Paris. The streets
and century-heaped buildings reflect two thousand
years of unique ancient beauty and rumbling truth.
Since theatre is a vital part of the French life, it is
interesting to know how a playwright gets his play
produced. A play can be presented in Paris for about
one fourth of the cost in New York. But to the French
producer the sum is equally as formidable and prob-
ably, for the most part, unprocurable if the French
government did not help with the financing. There is
a committee of six in the Beaux Arts which decides
who is given financial aid towards their play. The
writer gives his script to a producer, and if he finds
the play worthy, the producer and the theatre ask the
committee if they can have money to present it. There
are two methods of assistance. Either the money is
advanced to the theatre or the money spent is deduct-
ible from the taxes. Oddly, it is the first play of a
writer which has the most chance of being financed.
There is a special committee which reads the first
plays sent in. Nine out of ten times, if the play has
merit, there will be money advanced. And the play-
wright need not be a Frenchman!
For instance, a Belgian named Jean Mogin had his
first play, Chacun Selon Sa Faim, accepted and pre-
sented in 1949. It was a huge success. The play was
presented at the A Vieux Colombier Theatre by Ray-
mond Hermantier, the Metteur en Scene. Mogin was
about thirty years old. His second play was not a suc-
cess, but under these conditions one is not "through"
in the theatre. Of course, the most famous of the play-
124
The Creators Challenge
wrights who received aid in the theatre and made good
is Jean Paul Satre. His Les Mouches was presented
about ten years ago, and so France aided another truly
creative artist. Incidentally, both Louis Jouvet and
Jean Louis Barrault presented plays which received
financial assistance from the Beaux Arts, until they
became successful.
The small country of Belgium is extremely culture
conscious. There is a National, an Avant-Garde, and
a Literary Theatre. Some seventy-five actors and act-
resses are given contracts and they engage younger
actors for extra parts. Because theatre, painting and
music are part of the people's right, they can expect
good art as they expect good schools. Wealth and cul-
ture must be intermingled for a people to last, for a
nation to mature. A Belgian, for a small fee of seventy-
five cents, can get a seat, enjoy a good play and help
build a growing permanent theatre. And in turn the
actors feel a security for they always have a large
responsive audience to work for.
In the Scandinavian countries all the arts are fecund;
there is fervent creativity. These countries have an
astonishing original group of young artists, and they
are supported by the state and by the people them-
selves. Every bar, hotel and restaurant has original
paintings, all in the modern vein, and of excellent
taste. The largest hotel bar in Oslo has thirty original
Edward Munchs 6n the walls, a fortune in money and
beauty; and also there is a twenty-foot stained-glass
window executed by a young contemporary artist.
There is practically no unemployment and most of the
people do what they want to do and make a living at
it Last year in Sweden the people gave their beloved
125
Fernando Puma
King Gustave Adolf a birthday present He was
seventy years old. From April until November the
Swedish people sent in donations, and on the king's
birthday he was given $1,000,000 as a token of popular
homage. There are only seven million inhabitants in
Sweden. Certainly this is a handsome sum. King Gus-
tave Adolf has now set up a committee, with himself
as chairman, and is spending his time spending this
gift to benefit and further the arts and the creators.
For years to come the people of Sweden will be thank-
ful in their hearts for the wisdom of the use of the
king's largess. Little Sweden published three thousand
more new books last year than the entire United States;
and large beautifully designed book stores are almost
as frequent as drug stores. Besides, Sweden is the
only country in the world where a good poet can make
a living solely from the sales of his books. Respect for
culture and education in these Scandinavian countries
is a symbol of a living fruition.
It is no secret that in the United States creators are
forced to seek a livelihood outside of their own field.
Only eight hundred actors made over $5000 ,in the
theatre last year; some five hundred painters and
sculptors made the magnificent sum of $400 in their
profession; a writer takes a year or more to write and
polish his novel and, if he is lucky and gets it pub-
lished, he may make $1000. And what of the living
expenses, cost of materials, and , and . . .
There are those who still decry the need for art.
Travail, Plaisir, Procreation. C'est tout! However, his-
tory mirrors life of the future. And whose names are
recorded, giving courage and hope, elevating the
spirit? Whose names indeed? Is it Genghis Khan,
126
The Creators Challenge
Alexander the Great, Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler, we
proudly mention? Not the warriors, but the creators
ease human sorrows and lead man from the mire. What
great truths are found in Socrates, stirring pathos in
Aristophanes, enthrallment in Beethoven, sublime eter-
nity in Botticelli, wit and brilliance in Voltaire, mag-
nificence in Michelangelo. And tomorrows will be
remembered in the tragic greatness of Kathe Kollwitz,
the suspended animation of Kafka, the magic of Stra-
vinsky, Rouault's deep passion, Schweitzer's Olympian
humanity, the electricity of Nijinsky, Shaw's crackling
truths, and the startling innovations of Frank Lloyd
Wright. This is monumental time-space! Recorded
impressions giving reasons and hopes to halt the
breath and strengthen the back, shake the weary head
and start fresh, anew.
Can anything be done? Private philanthropy and
foundations are excellent, but they are hardly enough.
The government must allocate a definite sum each
year supporting all the arts through an Arts Council.
This Council must be above and beyond politics, as in
the continental countries. Even France, which has
changed governments nearly twenty times since the
war has not discontinued the budget set aside for the
furtherance of the arts. No one can find political favor-
itism in the running of the Old Vic or the theatre at
Malmo. Culture needs years of evolutionconsistent
education to build an aware public. People cannot con-
tinue to put all their faith in materialism. The United
States is cutting its emotional teeth. Our government
must maintain the arts as it does the Post Offices and
Health Departments. And I am not referring to an-
other WPA. That was only partially the answer. It
127
Fernando Puma
was merely a financial life-belt. Artistic results were
exceptions. Fine paintings should adorn public build-
ings, schools and hospitals. Inspiring scultpure should
adorn our parks. In Belgium they use reproductions of
Titians and Rubens on their money. Everyone with
a franc is in touch with art. The White House in Wash-
ington should possess a great collection of art and en-
courage and patronize our foremost creators not force
them to pander for snobbish, political funds. Art must
be a proud part of our national heritage.
Shall we start somewhere with the three million
students? There would be governing bodies in all the
arts, creators of proven merit, who will lead in a con-
structive way, opening the doors for the gifted and
providing an answer for the talented and energetic
citizens. Those people, too often, become American
expatriots or devitalized American automatons.
Today's American atmosphere is permeated with
formaldehyde, killing creators like butterflies in a
chemist jar. On a radio discussion program in New
York a few months ago, a learned moderator faced me,
a professor from Queens College and the President of
an Encyclopedia company. The discussion was Scandi-
navian Education vs. the American Education Meth-
ods. I was in favor of the broader non-materialistic
approach of the Nordic countries. As an American,
who has spent his adult life creating, and comprehend-
ing the problems of creators, I was quite overwhelmed
by the timidity and sterility of the arguments of my
opponents. The fear breeding fears, the suspicion of
criticism, the blindness to the faults, shocked nie.
"Frank Lloyd Wright is unimportant! Grandma Moses
is a great artist! The creator is given every chance and
128
The Creators Challenge
is appreciated in this country! Artistic support is so-
cialism!" These were a few of the pedantic statements
and implications.
It is to laugh! But how can one laugh when millions
of people listen with deep respect to these people of
position and power. And when the program was firt-
nished, the Queens professor told me he agreed with
my premise and had even written several articles on
the superiority of Scandinavian education. "But the
times, you know . . ."
Yearly, the world over, the private art patron is be-
coming extinct In the United States this rare bird
contributes to Art Foundations as he does to the Red
Cross or the Church. It is tax deductible. It is charita-
ble. It is popular. Philanthropic foundations (Ford,
Guggenheim, Rockefeller, Whitney, etc.) take care of
a few creators, at most several thousand people from
throughout our vast land and its dominions receive
grants. Without them the United States would be an
artistic dust bowl from coast to coast Yes, seedlings
are being planted, but there is need for much wider
distribution and cultivation.
It is obligatory to recognize the needs of the creative
people in our country and help them by exposing the
near insane methods which cause lions to eat their own
tails and die as Hollywood, radio, TV are dying. And
we must be careful, not all animals are regenerative.
129
DOROTHY PARKER, born
1893, lives in New York City.
She is the author of many
witty books of verse: Enough
Rope, Sunset Gun, Death and
Taxes, Not So Deep as a
Well. Miss Parker co-authored
with Elmer Rice Close Har-
mony. She wrote several mem-
orable pieces for the New
Yorker and has won the O.
Henry Short Story Award.
Hollywood, the Land I Won't Return To
I should have written my speech out to be a little more
coherent, but you see what happened. I had a broken
wrist. When I go offsides, I want to tell you about it.
I have a little dog, a little poodle named Misty, and I
was taking her for a walk. Well, she stopped suddenly
and I didn't. And so when I was in a great cast, and
slings and bandages, and all the appurtenances, a lady
who lives in the same building I do came up to me and
said, "What happened to you?" I said, "Well, I fell
over Misty and broke my wrist." And you know, people
say the damndest things. You know what she said? She
said, "Ah, poor little Misty." *
I think it is an enormous impudence of me to come
here and talk to you today. It got me coming down in
the cab the enormity of what I am doing, getting up
** From a talk given in 1953.
130
Hollywood, the Land I Wont Return To
here and talking to you people. I thought what in heav-
en's name am I doing, doing this. Then I had one
glorious moment when I thought, I can take just a min-
ute, and I don't have to speak but I was stuck here.
That's not nice to say because a long time ago the
gentleman who runs the theatre said for me to come
down here. Well I thought it just great I don't know
what gets into you as you say that. I suppose it was
that in this very room Geraldine Page was discovered.
So I said to the gentleman, well, yes, but what shall
I talk about. And he said, just talk about things like
writing in Hollywood. And so if you will let me, I'd
like to talk about Hollywood. You see, I can talk about
Hollywood only from the position of a writer there
. . . 'cause I was supposed to write for many many
years. I wasn't there the whole time. It really was a
year on and off, but it seems to me I was there for
centuries. Now, I must tell you that the writer goes
to Hollywood and just calls himself a writer like those
out there. Oh, no, some people leave, and come back,
but they write there. You can call yourself a writer,
which is a great name, you know, but in Hollywood
you can be a writer. You don't need any talent the
last thing you want is talent. You need two things: you
need skill and you need a fine memory so that if you
know what they did in that wild picture in 1938 . . ,
you're in! You also need, I can't do it, but you need
a manual process, which is polishing apples.
Well, I first ... is this boring you? ... I first went
out to Hollywood oh, many many years ago. Soooooo
long ago that the movie actresses looked flat-chested.
When I went out there I found they were doing very
curious things. I went out there the way everybody
131
Dorothy Parker
goes out there, with sheets of paper folded. You know
, . . I went out It was a time so long ago they were
having what is called "theme songs." They did a pic-
ture called ... "I came after to write a theme song."
They told me there had been a picture called "Woman
Disputed" and that the theme song was "Woman Dis-
puted, I Love You." But I came out to work on a picture
called "Dynamite" and you can't very well say "Dyna-
mite, I Love You/" So anyway I thought, I was young
and prudent, I might go into the producer and see
what the picture was about The producer was Mr.
Cecil DeMille. So I got in, well, it was like riding a
camel through the eye of a needle. But I finally did
get in and I said, "Just tell me what this picture's
about 7 ' Well, it was so long and so involved I couldn't
possibly remember it to tell you. I do know one thing,
that the hero had been accused and convicted of mur-
derof course, unjustly. He was in the death cell, you
see, but luckily had his guitar with Mm. So I was asked
to write the song he would sing.
I got a little nervous while Mr. DeMille was telling
me all these things and I went back to my office. First,
I had said, "Mr. DeMille, the details of these pictures
must be ... my goodness, it's fust staggering." He
said, "Ah, yes, zebras in the King of Kings." So I went
back to my office and I got a Bible and I felt what in
heaven's name are zebras doing in that picture about
the life of Christ. I thought maybe he said "Hebrews?"
I couldn't stand it and you can understand why.
Later when I ran into him I asked, "What are you
doing with zebras?" He said, "Oh, the zebras. They
were pulling the chariots of the Magdalene." He said,
'Terrible, they kick so easily but their legs broke."
132
Hollywood, the Land I Wont Return To
You know, well, that was pretty fancy. I should have
known this.
Again, I went back to my office. Oh, I had a wonder-
ful office. If you don't mind as big as this room. I had
a great desk. You know those desks that have a great
long drawer in them deep. It was lovely. It was a
lovely office but the air was oppressive, and even
though I opened the windows and opened the doors,
it was still depressing. It turned out that the gentleman
who had it before me got a little upset and wanted to
have a ... you know, a place. Well he wanted a little
escape. He was raising mushrooms. And he was raising
mushrooms by a correspondence system, a system that
raised them anywhere. So they had to be in liquid
manure. Again, the first time I was there, if you don't
mind my saying, there used to be a system, now I don't
know if it still exists they would get a title for a pic-
ture and somebody would say, no, it's not too good.
And they would send around a slip to the people
working, "See if you can get a better title. You'll get
$50 for it." And they would send you a tracing of the
picture. Well, when I was there, they were doing a
picture with Greta Garbo. It was called "Heat." Some
master-mind said "You can't have a marquee with
designs on 'Heat'." So they sent it around to these
writers to get this title and they had to send, as I told
you, a tracing of what the picture was about. Well, I
don't know what it was about. It was a desert, I think
in Africa. Oh, boy, it was a hot desert! She and Mr.
Gilbert, it was that long ago, on the desert, and they
were on their hands and knees ... by then five days,
no water. Well, Mr. Gilbert then had a flask hung
around him on a strap and she thought it was full of
133
Dorothv Parker
j
water. Well, poor soul, it was full of spirits. And so the
plot was that Garbo pulled herself up through the
sand to Mm and said she would give herself to him
if he would give her a drink of water. Now I don't
know about you gentlemen, but I should think a man
five days in the desert without water, that's the last
thing he would want. In any event, the picture was
called "Black Oakie."
No, I know . . . but you know, it isn't much better
nowadays. I have just heard lately they are doing, at
one great studio, a picture of Huckleberry Finn. They
are doing it as a musical. Well, maybe it makes music.
I don't know. But you see what happens there . . . they
can't let anything alone, and they have to fix up
Huckleberry Finn. They have to do it! So that voyage
down the river, and the raft. Do you think they could
leave one of the greatest characters in American liter-
ature on it? No. There was a little blond girl with no
brassiere. Now you think things are better than they
used to be? I heard, oh a very short time ago, they
bought a book. I can't tell you the name of the book
because I don't know. It was one of those books about
convicts and Devil's Island, and there were five of
them and they cut down a tree and hollowed it out,
and made a canoe of it. And in the night, five got
away. As the day dawned there was a sixth. He was
tall and lean and dressed in white and there was a
glory around his head. And the five convicts got out
and escaped in the canoe, and in the morning there
were six ... but it was Joan Crawford. Oh the hell!
I don't think we are getting any better.
Now I want to talk, I can talk about it say, from a
writer's standpoint. The actors ... it seems to me
134
Hollywood, the Land I Won't Return To
they have an awfully good time. They keep giving
one another prizes and they have all this. The writers
I think have a fairly tough time, except I didn't. They
go out there as I told you. They don't need any talent
They used to. I don't know . . . things are different.
You used to get an awful lot of money. Ladies and
gentlemen, there was one time I was so rich I thought
that detective stories were wonderful. I think things
are different now. Nonetheless, they think they will go
out there and they will get this much money, then they
will come back east, south or wherever they live, and
write that great play about the coal miners. They don't
. . . something happens. Nothing comes out of that
place. I think, I'm really fairly sure in saying, nothing
does. Surely, some people who are really poor writers
go out. They're sent for to do a certain thing. They
do it. They get out. They go there day after day in
groups. I tell you, nobody can do anything alone. You
are given a script that eight people have written from
a novel four people have written. You then, they say,
write dialogue. What a curious word. Well you know
you can't dialogue without changing scenes. While you
are doing it, eight people back of you are writing be-
yond you. Nobody is allowed to do anything alone. I
think that's most of the trouble with the movies. I don't
know what to say. It was just like that I don't do it any
more. I used to get money as I told you. It isn't real
money. It isn't. I think it's made of compressed snow.
It just melts in your hands. They go out there and they
go to get it, and they ... I suppose that you give a
great deal in exchange for it. You get the money. Give
each other fame, but I earnestly believe that if a screen
writer had his name across the Capital Theatre in red,
135
Dorothy Parker
white and blue letters fifty feet tall, he'd still be anony-
mous. But they say, you see there's something about
that money, even though it is money, you get a little
more, and you get a little more. You see, when you're
broke, you're broke, but you get a little money then
you want a little more money, and more, and so on.
Now I think that nothing comes out of Hollywood.
People have been there and back People who started
either here or in the south or wherever. But has any-
thing come out of that? There is only one word in
Hollywood. It has enormous popularity, and that word
is "another." Let's do another. Let's do another . . .
you know? There are too many people involved!
Oh, I forgot to tell you, everybody writes. Every-
body writes. I was watching a producer who shall be
nameless . . . it's David Selznick. But anyway, he
would come in bashfully, never got in till 6 o'clock in
the afternoon and the poor people had to stay on work-
ing. And he would say, "No, not this/' So you change
it and the world was made for you and I. No, I just
think that you can't do it You can't write out there,
unless they send you some place else and then you've
made your name some place else. I would start this
little fashion by saying, If I hear one say one good
word about Hollywood, I hope you'll all do me the
courtesy to get up and go home but you know, I find
that I can't Because a place besides Hollywood, or a
place beside anything . . . there must be some people
who are brave, gentle, courageous and intelligent, and
they are in Hollywood, but oh my God, they are a
minority group. I don't know, I think the great great
trouble is the terrible fear. And I don't mean that just
politically. They were scared before. When you say
136
Hollywood, the Land I Wont Return To
"do another" that means fear, doesn't it? Now there
they are and look what comes out of it. Well look what
once came out of it ... a man who made that place
a name in history. A man who made that place a glory,
spread that glory around the world. So they kicked out
Charlie Chaplin. I don't know if you have the misfor-
tune to read the Hollywood columnists, but I do. What
they say about him is so much bunk. They say that he
made a great deal of money in America. Well, he's
earned a great deal of money in America. Possibly his
pictures made money that was almost proportionate to
the pleasure they gave. They say America gave him
money ... oh, they didn't give Mm money. He
worked for years and years and years. He employed
people loyally and generously. So they say he s been
given money and a letter with parsley around it Oh
that's the fend of thing they do ... they throw out
the only good person they can.
Now I cannot get up here and say they won't do a
good picture. Oh, they have once or twice. I say they
can. So maybe they can again. You know, The Infor-
mer was a pretty good picture. Do you think they
could do that now ... in that sunshine and amid the
plaintive cooing of stool pigeons? The Informer would
now be given a silver loving cup, and a life member-
ship in the American Legion or the D.A.R. I don't
know. I think they can do it I don't know why they
won't do it It's again ... I think the trouble is too
many people, not letting one person do something, and
that terrible word "another." I don't know. The musi-
cals . . . have you followed the musicals? I can only
quote Marc Connolly who said he had an idea tihat
would revolutionize, you should pardon the expres-''
137
Dorothy Parker
sion, musical comedies on the screen. This was his plot
... the understudy takes sick and the leading lady
plays the part. They haven't done it yet.
Do you know that a few years ago, at my age . . .
ouch! ... I was called in to work on something . . .
The life of Eva Tanguay called "The-I-Don't-Care-
Giri" Now how would you feel about that? I was fired
but I meant to be. It seems that Miss Tanguay . . .
well, she liked a colored gentleman, but the man who
was producing it said, well, that don't look so good in
technicolor. I don't know. I don't know, things may be
different in Hollywood. I don't think ... I think
they're worse. I didn't get there in time . . . when it
was the Klondike, you know? When there wasn't a
party that was any good unless there were two dead
bodies on the lawn. They are all getting genteel, and
now God help us, all their coaches. Everybody buys
paintings. They don't buy a painting the way you buy
a painting, something you love to see, that you want
to look at They want to know how cheap you can get
it. I heard one writer, five years ago living in an in-
verted herring barrel, say to his agent, "Hey, if you
can, pick up another Braque as cheap as you got one
for Joe/'
So, thafs what they do now they buy paintings!
I don't know, the culture part is awfully tough to take.
Again, I say there is a minority group, the gentle, intel-
ligent erudite group, but they . . . well, they are
naturally pushed out.
But I have never in all the years I was there, I never
saw anybody who had read a book published before
1920. 1 talked one night to a very great, very rich man.
138
Hollywood, the Land I Won't Return To
It was the time The Naked and The Dead had come
out.
I said, "Did you read it?" And he said, "Yeah, read
last night after dinner. I went to bed about 10 o'clock."
I said, "Do you mean you read that book then?"
He said, "Well I started from the back and just looked
through it." And thafs the way they read. What do
they do for entertainment? It's all money! They go out
to play golf, but anyhow they don't come back and say,
I did pretty well ... it was a nice day . . . good to
be out None of that nonsense! "Well, I lost $50 on the
fifth and on the 6th tee I got back $27." You see? And
thafs all you ever hear ... is money. And as I told
you, that money ain't so good. I don't know. I tell you
I think they could do something. They're not doing it.
There is a stench of fear over that place that is like the
smell of a Black Plague. What they are afraid of?
I don't know. It may be the 3-dimensional pictures. I
haven't seen them ... I haven't caught up with the
radio yet but I don't particularly want to. Tm told facts
fly out at you. The writers are out of work. They can't
get anybody. Well, the infallible Sam Goldwyn said,
"How can I do decent pictures when the good writers
are gone to jail'" He quickly added, "Don't misunder-
stand ... I think they ought to be hung." Mr. Gold-
wyn too has been caught up in this thing of buying
pictures. He had a set of beautiful Lautrecs.
I don't know what more to say about Hollywood.
I just say it is a Stagnation. It is a Horror. The palm
trees have been brought in, the poor dears, they died
on their feet. Brilliant flowers smell like old dollar
bills. Those enormous vegetables taste as if they had
been grown in old trunks. That way of having no sea-
139
Dorothy Parker
sons . . . it's just terrible, you can't have any dates.
They haven't Easter. Except at Christmas your agent
sends you a blotter. I don't know. It's much worse than
that now. When I was there it was pretty bad then.
I can only give to you, this message anybody who
isn't living in Hollywood is having a good life!
140
LEE RICHARD HAYMAN was
bom in 1922 in Indiana. His
poetry has appeared in Ameri-
can Mercury, Saturday Re-
view, Antioch Review, Ari-
zona Quarterly. He is living
in Mexico City at present.
Feared and the Fearful
In blaze of later afternoon sun
a tradition of trumpets makes music,
heralding the pageantry of death
as bull and man charge,
sacrifice to common enemy
eager above in shadowing stands.
The duel is fought . . .
rushing instinct bestially
toro is power of shoulders, mean horns
and slavering hate, grows threat
against the foe, posturing in suit-of -lights
catching the sun in gilded glints,
matador . . . ole" . . . ole . . . matador,
momentary god in motion, quick, fluid,
constructing mastery and earning awe,
hate his partner, charging, brushing, crimson cape,
seeking victim, finding flesh and thrust of steel,
est oque . . . curved, snuffing . . . final play.
Spent bull is dead,
life-blood of graceful, feared and fearful man
cools on the heated sand . . .
augmented by an ear, a tail or hoof
the ancient pageantry dreams on
feeding its insatiable ole-ing beast
balleting history of a sort . . .
And only death is victor.
143
ROBERT M. HUTCHINS, born
in 1899, was president of the
University of Chicago from
1925 to 1945, and chancellor
from 1945 to 1951. He has
worked in pedagogy all his
life, and is one of the foremost
exponents of advanced educa-
tion. No Friendly Voice, The
Higher Learning in America,
Religion and Higher Educa-
tion are several of Ms impor-
tant books. He is president of
the Fund for the Republic and
lives in California.
Education: Has It a Future?
The American educational system is one of the most
impressive phenomena in the world. The sheer dimen-
sions of the enterprise are such as to unnerve anybody
who tries to understand or even to describe it. There
are now thirty-seven million pupils enrolled. Ninety-
nine percent of the children between the ages of seven
and thirteen are in school. About seventy-five per cent
of those of high school age are in high school. Almost
three million young people are attending colleges and
universities. If we had the same number of college
students in proportion to the population that England
has, we would have about four-hundred thousand of
them instead of almost six times that many. In the last
144
Education: Has It a Future?
generation the length of the young American's school
attendance has been prolonged by four full years.
During the time it took the population to increase by
forty-five per cent, enrollment in colleges and universi-
ties multiplied ninefold.*
All this began with the Puritans of New England
more than three hundred years ago. The tenets of their
faith required an educated ministry, preaching to con-
gregations that could read. To meet the first require-
ment they founded Harvard College; the second they
dealt with through universal education.
As the theocracy lost its hold and was superseded by
democracy, the religious motive behind public educa-
tion was replaced by a political one. Between the
Revolution and the Civil War, the period in which the
State universities were founded and universal, free,
compulsory education spread throughout the country,
the national conviction was that democracy could sur-
vive only if the citizens were enlightened through the
common schools and leaders were supplied by centers
of higher learning.
The passage of the first Morrill Act in 1862 was a
symptom of a great change. This Act granted the
States 30,000 acres of Federal land for each congres-
sional seat to which a State was entitled for the foun-
dation of colleges where, in the words of the Act, "the
leading object shall be ? without excluding other scien-
tific and classical studies ... to teach such branches
of learning as are related to agriculture and the me-
chanic arts ... in order to promote the liberal and
practical education of the industrial classes in the sev-
eral pursuits and professions in life." Half the States
* Presented over NBC, December 1953.
145
Robert M. Hutchins
added the new college to the State university, thus in-
troducing subjects and purposes into these institutions
that had never before been associated with universities
in the history of the world.
The Merrill Act reflected the growing belief, which
dominated American education from the Civil War un-
til about 1925, that the object of education was eco-
nomic. It was to make the country and its people pros-
perous. It was now the first duty of every American
to take a hand in opening the lands of the West or in
building the new industries that were coming to be the
principal interest of the country. In the process he was,
of course, expected to make himself economically in-
dependent. The aim of education was to teach him
how to perform these duties.
It might have been argued that the way to make the
individual prosperous was to help him learn to think.
It might even have been suggested that this was the
way to make the country prosperous. But this idea
was far too fancy for the times. What came to be de-
manded in the universities, colleges, junior colleges,
and high schools was specific training in specific occu-
pations, in order that the pupil might hope so the
theory ranto step from the educational system into
the job without ever noticing the difference.
The economic motive is still strong. The best evi-
dence is the program elected by veterans under the
G. I. Bill of Rights. This bill required the largest edu-
cational expenditures in the history of the race. Up to
July 31 of this year almost eight million men and
women had availed themselves of the benefits of
the Act. One-and-a-half million went through what
are called "job training establishments." About three
146
Education: Has It a Future?
quarters of a million took farm training. More than
two and a half million enrolled in craft, trade, and
industrial courses. Training for every conceivable occu-
pation, including dancing, beauty culture, barbering,
dress-making, embalming, meat processing, chiropody,
and signpainting, appears in the reports of the Vet-
erans* Administration. Only six percent of the total
number of veterans enrolled in anything that the Vet-
erans* Administration could call the humanities. That
was about the same proportion that sought training
in the schools as carpenters, bricklayers, and plumbers.
The economic motive strengthens the conviction that
education is for everybody and that if some education
is good for everybody more is better. In a country that
believes in equality of economic opportunity it is im-
possible to deny to everybody whatever education is
thought necessary to economic success. Every year
more and more occupations seek to raise their stand-
ards, enchance their prestige, and restrict competition
through educational requirements. But in a country
that believes in equality of economic opportunity this
simply means that more and more people must be ad-
mitted to the educational programs preparatory to
these occupations. If the time ever comes at which it
is necessary to have a college degree in order to get a
job and it sometimes looks as though this day were
not far distant then everybody in this country wiE
receive a college degree.
At first glance it seems strange that the United States
should be that country in the world in which the eco-
nomic motive has played the dominant role in education.
In the United States specific training to earn a living
seems to be irrelevant to economic success. At least we
147
Robert M. Hutchins
know that many of our fellow-citizens who have made
a great deal of money have never had any training of
this kind, or, indeed, of any Mud. Moreover, the United
States is that country in which mechanization is most
highly developed. The object of the machine is not
merely to reduce labor, but also to simplify the oper-
ation so that a minimum of training and skill is needed.
There is, therefore, very little to teach an industrial
worker. Still worse, America is that country in which
change of every kind takes place at a faster rate than
anywhere else. If an educational system is to prepare
a boy or girl to work at a given trade in a given en-
vironment, it must be fairly clear that the trade and
the environment are going to be substantially the same
when the student is ready to go to work as they were
when he was preparing to do so. In the United States
the machines on which a pupil is trained may have
been drastically changed by the time he comes to use
one. Or the trade for which he has been trained may
have been swept away.
The United States is a country in motion. From 1940
to 1947 more than fifteen million people moved from
one State to another. In one year, from March 1949 to
March 1950, eight and a half million people moved
from one county to another. In the decade from 1940
to 1950 the population of the West increased by forty-
one per cent. Over a million children between the ages
of seven and thirteen change schools every year. As is
well known, the rapidity with which Americans
change jobs is even more sensational than that with
which they change homes.
The object of industrialization and mechanization is
to increase the leisure of the population and the sup-
148
Education: Has It a Future?
ply of material goods at its command. Even if we
assumed, as I think we cannot, that the kind of voca-
tional education we have had in the United States
could contribute to these ends, it is clear that this kind
of education loses its point when these ends have been
achieved. Now we do not know what to do with the
leisure we have obtained or with the goods we have
produced. Training a man to work on a machine does
not help him to understand what to do when he is not
working. Training for production does not help us to
discover how to distribute equitably the surpluses we
have on hand.
These things are perfectly clear to everybody. There
is nothing new in anything I have said. Consequently
the economic motive for mass education in this coun-
try, though it is still strong, has been somewhat weak-
ened of late, I think it is being supplanted by a
different attitude, and that is that education does not
have to have a purpose. Since a practical activity like
education can be measured only in terms of its pur-
pose, it follows that there can be no standards in edu-
cation. There is therefore no difference between good
and bad education.
The argument runs this way. We first say that every-
body ought to be educated, and the more education
everybody has the better everything will be. We then
say that whatever goes on in an institution called edu-
cational is education. As the Duke of Wellington re-
marked, there is nothing like a good, clear definition.
With this definition we are able to equate education
with schooling and to say that everybody ought to go
to school, and the longer he stays there the better
everything will be. What he does there is not of much
149
Robert M. Hutchins
importance. We do not want Mm around the house
and we do not want Mm to go to work. In this way
the educational system becomes a custodial system, or
a place of accommodation. The standards that can be
applied to a place of accommodation are illustrated by
the questions one asks at a resort hotel. What is the
price? Are the rooms neat and clean? Is the service
prompt? Is the food good? Will I meet nice people?
What are the opportunities for recreation? What is the
view? As might be expected, these are the questions
that the catalogues and brochures of American col-
leges and universities set out first of all to answer.
Or consider the dramatic efforts of the Co-ordinator
of Secondary Education in one of the great cities of
the West to keep pupils in Mgh school. He has in-
stituted courses dealing with floriculture, restaurant
work, driver training, family living, meeting people,
and personal economics. He is committed to the idea
that the educational system is a place of accommoda-
tion with vocational overtones. And he is not alone.
It may be said, and with some justice, that if we
have failed to figure out a purpose for education it is
because we have been too busy expanding it. Though
this qualification is just, it is not comforting for there
is no evidence that the expansion of our educational
system is at an end; and if expansion and the defini-
tion of purpose are mutually exclusive, we shall not be
able to get around to purpose for a great many years,
if ever. The birth rate has risen from 18.4 per thousand
in 1933 to 25.1 per thousand in 1952. TMs means that
one and a half million more children were born in 1952
than in 1933. The effects of the rising birth-rate are
already being felt in the schools. It is estimated that
150
Education: Has It a Future?
they lack 345,000 classrooms and 72,000 teachers. If
we consider only those children already bom and do
not indulge in speculation about the future of the
birth-rate, we see that the high schools and the col-
leges and universities are in for a bad time. By 1970,
if the present rate of enrollment in higher institutions
is maintained, the number of college and university
students will be roughly twice what it is today. It fol-
lows, of course, that unless there is some change in the
present ratio of students to teachers, the teaching staff
will have to be twice its present size.
Let us look at some of the consequences of regard-
ing the educational system as a place of accommoda-
tion. If you are going to run such a place, you might
as well do it with the lowest paid help you can get.
This is what we are doing: we are paying teachers an
average salary of $3400 a year. The reason the average
is so high is that some states, like New York and Cali-
fornia, pay salaries that are out of line. In Arkansas,
for example, more than half the teachers get less than
$1900 a year. Although we are already short 72 ? 000
teachers, every year 60,000 of those we have leave the
profession.
In the second place, if you are managing a place of
accommodation, you will want to make sure that no
new, different, or disturbing ideas reach the young
people who are being accommodated. Whatever the
dominant pressure group in the community wants
them exposed to should of course be arranged, but
only this and nothing more. We are now following this
prescription. The excitement about UNESCO (the
United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural
Organization), in Houston, Pawtucket, and Los An-
151
Robert M. Hutchdns
geles; the censorship of textbooks and library books in
Texas and Vermont and the agitation leading to the
establishment of the Textbook Commission in New
York; the rash of loyalty oaths for teachers all over the
country these things are the Mnd of absurdities that
might be expected in a place of accommodation. The
low point came in the demand of an Indiana textbook
commissioner that Robin Hood and all books referring
to Quakers be removed from the schools because both
Robin Hood and the Quakers follow the Commu-
nist Party line. Or perhaps an even lower point was
reached in the reference of a Senator of the United
States to our oldest university as a "sanctuary for com-
munists and a smelly mess.** What the Senator was
objecting to, by the way, was that Harvard had failed
to fire a professor who had availed himself of rights
guaranteed him by the Constitution the Senator had
sworn to defend.
If what we want is a custodial system or a place of
accommodation there can be little objection to this
Mnd of thing. Such a system or such a place would
naturally indoctrinate the youth in the tribal slogans
and folkways as interpreted by the most vocal group
in the community at the time.
But if we want an educational system we shall have
to insist on something far different The aim of educa-
tion appears to be understanding, to know the reasons
for things. The difference between training and educa-
tion is intellectual; the person who is trained to the
habitual performance of certain operations need not
understand the reasons for those operations or their
consequences. To put it another way, education is the
process of learning to lead the good life. The perma-
152
Education: Has It a Future?
nence of the good habits that are formed by good acts,
that induce further good acts, and so constitute a good
life, is guaranteed by an intellectual grasp of the aims
of life and of the means of achieving them.
So Aristotle said that it is impossible to be good
without being wise. He also said that it is impossible
to be wise without being good. Thus goodness and
wisdom go hand in hand. But though other social in-
stitutions, like the family and the church, must, as
Cardinal Newman and John Stuart Mill suggested,
bear the primary responsibility for the formation of
good habits, we must look to education to supply the
understanding and knowledge necessary to sustain
them. We must also look to education to provide the
opportunity for the maximum development of the in-
tellectual powers of the people; for no other social
institution can perform this service to society.
A democracy must make the effort to see to it that
every citizen is as good and wise as possible and that
he achieves the fullest development of his intellectual
powers. As Mill remarked, the prime object of govern-
ment should be the virtue and intelligence of the peo-
ple. In a democracy this must mean all the people.
A system dedicated to these aims would be an edu-
cational system. Since it would be intelligible, it would
be defensible. Academic freedom, which is now gen-
erally regarded as a device by which wrong-headed
people hang on to their jobs, would be seen as a means
of guaranteeing an alert and progressive population.
Discussion and controversy, which are coming to be
looked upon as subversive, would appear as indispen-
sable to the functioning of democratic government.
Intellectual activity, which has often been thought
153
Robert M. Hutchins
frivolous and dangerous, would be respected as the
essential ingredient of the wisdom that the country
acutely needs.
Korea and the atomic bomb should give us that
sense of need. We have been prosperous, powerful,
and isolated so long that we have not been concerned
by waste nor alarmed by ignorance or ineptitude. We
have not even worried much about demagogues and
the large foilowings they have been able to muster.
We have taken these things in our stride, for we have
always been able to afford them. So we have poured
billions into the erection of countless schools, colleges,
and universities without bothering about what was to
go on inside them. We did not take education seri-
ously. We could see no reason why we should.
Now, however, we confront new problems, the solu-
tion of which is a matter of life and death, not merely
to us but to civilization. Nothing is more striking than
the absence of any connection between our problems
and our educational program. The most urgent issues
before us are how to make peace and how to make
democracy work. We must find answers before it is too
late. A system of accommodation cannot help us find
them. For this we need wisdom. The aim of education
is wisdom.
154
SUZANNE LA BIN, bom in
Paris, has contributed various
articles to reviews and news-
papers in Argentina, Brazil
and France. Her first two
books were Staline le Terrible
and Defensa de la Democra-
cia* Homme d'Abord, Demo-
cratie et Totalitarisme will be
published in the United States
this fan.
Do National Characteristics in Literature
Exist?
The existence of national characteristics in literature is
generally held as an obvious fact that needs no proof.
Reference is made to the influence of tradition, the
mold of school, the stamp of language, the fascination
of the earth, but the upholders of national charac-
teristics become extremely evasive the moment the
question arises of stating exactly what concrete con-
cordances these ties establish between the various
works produced in the same nation. Yet nothing should
arouse our suspicions more than a general statement
which is not accompanied by examples which may be
checked.
The London Institute of Psychology understood
this, and during the last war sought, through objective
tests, to ascertain whether national characteristics
could be discovered in the field of humor. This con-
155
Suzanne Labin
scientious Institute made a special printing of a few
hundred witticisms by English, French and German
authors (all translated into good English and stripped
of all visible trace of national origin), and submitted
them to the judgment of several thousand wounded
men from all walks of life who were under treatment
in various hospitals. After the patients had either burst
out laughing, smiled or just yawned, they were asked
to guess the nationality of these humorists. Most of our
worthy and patriotic Englishmen attributed without
hesitation all the excellent examples to British humor,
all the risques jokes to French spirit, and all the coarse
stories to German authors. Even with those subtle per-
sons who strove to use more substantial criteria, eighty
per cent of the replies were wrong. Thus, in the long
run, we must admit that awkwardness as well as art-
fulness are qualities which are most equally shared
the world over. The greatest blow to the theory of na-
tional characteristics was found in the fact that Ger-
man prisoners were unable to discern Jewish jokes
from Aryan jokes.
Once again, intuition found itself contradicted by
experience. The field of humor, which is considered
by popular common sense as the most characteristic
of the national genius of each, people, proves rather to
be characteristic of the individual genius of each
humorist.
The question may be asked whether the test made
by the London Institute of Psychology could be ap-
plied to literary works. This would be quite difficult,
for while the "tasters' 7 who are called on to discover
the national origin may correctly judge an anecdote on
several lines, they can only obtain the real flavor of a
156
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist?
literary work after prolonged reading. And this gives
them a greater chance to identify the author, the more
so as men of letters are better known than humorists.
Another way of settling the question would be to
apply the sensible precepts of Descartes advising the
avoidance of bias and "the carrying out of such com-
plete enumerations and such general surveys that we
might be certain nothing was omitted." Consequently,
we must first read a good many books of different
literary types from the various centuries of a given
country, then we must look for the characteristics
common to all of them and, if we find any such com-
mon characteristics, we must do the same for the
works of other countries in order to check whether the
peculaiities of a national group vary from one group
to another. In this way, we should analyse Spanish
literature under its Castillian, Mexican, Argentinian.,
Chilian, Uruguayan, Paraguayan, etc., forms. Then we
should disentangle in each the common traits of its
dramatic or comic writers, poets, novelists, essayists,
or story-tellers, etc., and be certain that the national
characteristics thus found in one body of literature,
say the Nicaraguayan, can not be found in Hondurian,
Peruvian, or Equatorian, etc., works.
Until such rigorous methods are applied to literary
research, we can test the belief of those who argue for
the existence of national characteristics in literature.
We have only to ask these persons to be concrete, to
state specifically one of these supposed characteristics
and the mind is immediately beset by memories of a
host of works produced by the same nation and which
do not present this characteristic.
For example, it is in France, in the country of the
157
Suzanne Labin
clear Latin genius that the obscure poetry of Gerard
de Nerval, Petras, Borel, Rimbaud, Apoilinaire, and
Breton flourished. It is in this country of elegant con-
cision that the most grandiloquent poet of the world,
Victor Hugo, came into full blossom. It is in the nation
praised so highly for its sense of proportion that Rabe-
lais, Chauvin, the Marquis de Sade, Lautreamont,
Celine, Sartre shocked the public. Heavy Germany
produced the delicate Opitz, the graceful Hoffmans-
waldau, the elegant Gunther, the refined Heine. Re-
served and puritan England gave birth to the fiery
Marlowe, the passionate Tourneur, the mystical Blake,
the profuse Coleridge, the exuberant Lord Byron, and
the scandalous Oscar Wilde.
As we can only speak of an "individual character-
istic" insofar as this characteristic holds good in the
course of the life of the individual, so we can only
speak of a "national characteristic" insofar as we con-
tinue to find it in the course of the centuries which
make up the life of the nation. If national character-
istics are to have any validity, then the so-called typical
traits of a body of literature should remain unaffected
by the revolutions of fashion and the blows of time so
that they may be recognized across the tribulations
and the ages.
But what one takes generally for "characteristics,"
that is, essential and permanent attributes, are often
only the colors given to literary works by international
currents which arise from different patterns of circum-
stances and which disappear as soon as the public is
saturated. Thus the courtly poetry of Chrestien de
Troyes had its proselytes in Germany (the Minnesan-
ger), in England (Chaucer), and in Spain (Lopez de
158
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist?
Mundoza); as a reaction, it gave birth all over Europe
to the bourgeois literature which poked fun at the
exaggerations of chivalrous love and the feudal con-
ceptions of honor, (Rutebeuf in France, Henry de
Messen in Germany, Luigi Pulci in Italy, Cervantes in
Spain.) In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,
it was French classicism which set the fashion (the
period of Dryden in England, Gunther and Wieland
in Germany, Soumarokov and Kxylov in Russia; the
Italians and Spanish were writing in French. ) But in
all of these countries, the following century, roman-
ticism reacted against the "narrow" taste of the pre-
ceding ages.
It could be pled that each nation is receptive to
these various currents in its own particular way. But, if
it is true that the French romanticism of Hugo does
not present the peculiarities of the German romanti-
cism of Novalis or the English romanticism of Shelley,
neither does it present the peculiarities of the equally
French romanticism of Vigny and Lamartine. For it
is not the nation as an entity which reacts specifically
to different literary currents, but the individuals, and
it is because the whole country is arbitrarily identified
with a very small number of its writers that character-
istics are taken for national when they are really
individual.
Inadvertently, the mind often sets as the implicit
point of departure, in its proofs, the very result it had
to arrive at. If we want to establish that literature
possesses national characteristics, we choose dissimilar
authors which we begin by decreeing "characteristic"
of various nations, then, underlining the contrasts for
which these authors have been chosen, we conclude
159
Suzanne Labin
victoriously here you have the result of being born
on different sides of frontiers. Yet when we compare
the writers of the same nationality and note differ-
ences which are just as obvious between them, we
attribute these differences to the infinite variations of
temperament, education, associates, sentimental ad-
ventures, sicknesses and vices., and the common nation
which should have leveled off aE this is completely
forgotten. The work of Baudelaire is explained psy-
choanalytically by his Oedipus complex, psycho-bio-
logically by his depraved loves, "existentiaHy" by his
refusal to give in to liberty, literarily by his desire to
combine the romantic feeling with Parnassian perfec-
tion; but his works are never interpreted as a result of
his French citizenship. It is only when Baudelaire is
compared to foreign authors that immediately psycho-
logical, philosophical, family, and social interpretations
vanish in the face of the transcendent pre-eminence of
the passport.
Certainly, we cannot question the fact that literary
works can be influenced by the milieu in which the
writer lives, but this milieu is not necessarily bound by
a national frame. Julian Benda, in his article in the
French Encyclopedia, does not mention the nation at
all among die factors of cultural atmosphere which
condition the works of the mind. According to him
these factors are the form (rules such as the three
unities), the presentation (the invention of the print-
ing press), the ideological systems, etc. It is obvious
that all these arise from international trends.
The only factor in the list set up by Benda, which
we might at first glance qualify as national, is lan-
guage. It has often been said that Latin writers strug-
160
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist?
gled against a language which was unfit for abstract
thought and that Greek was more suited to express
ideas than moods. But this is denied by Paul van
Tieghen who defines the Greco-Latin literature as
^eing one for two peoples and in two languages."
Moreover, this mold that language is supposed to im-
pose on the expression of thoughts should loosen, and
in fact, does loosen as a result of the continual ex-
changes which take place among al languages. And
what is more, we cannot even consider that this mold
applies on the national scale since each great language
of Culture is used by numerous countries: French in
France, in the southeast part of Belgium, in French-
speaking Switzerland, in Libya, in Canada, etc;
English in Great Britain, Ireland, the United States,
Australia, Canada, India, etc.; German in Germany,
Austria, German-speaking Switzerland, etc.
Other factors which result from the milieu, such as
the institutions and customs, equally exercise an in-
fluence on literature, yet neither do they let them-
selves be grouped into a sheaf which is tied together
by the frontiers of a country. Institutions are often
alike in the same period in many countries. Contrarily,
they change in the course of life of the same nation,
bringing along changes in the influence they hold over
literature and this, of course, runs counter to the sta-
bility which we have recognized as necessary for all
deep-lying characteristics. In many cases, moreover, it
is the social framework of a foreign nation which in-
fluences its writers: Stendhal was fascinated by the
Italian Renaissance, Merimee by the Spanish gypsys;
the classicists took their inspiration from antiquity, the
romanticists from the Scandinavian countries and the
161
Suzanne Labin
Orient One may retort that with these writers who go
to find their subjects in the distant past or in far-away
countries, the contemporary atmosphere slips beneath
their pens unconsciously. But if it is quite true that the
Greco-Latin princes of Racine speak like the grand
seigneurs of the court of Versailles, the latter speak far
more Bice the characters of Euripides than the nine-
tenths of the national contemporaries of Racine. In
fact, and this is something that everyone admits, men-
tal attitudes, feelings and opinions differ much more
from social category to social category than they differ
in the same category from country to country. The in-
tellectuals the whole world over are much more alike
than an intellectual is like his shopkeeper or peasant
compatriot.
Finally, the influence of the social framework is so
complex that here one often makes mistakes. For ex-
ample, the provincial traits of present-day German
literature are attributed to the manifold divisions of
this country. Yet when this country was at the height
of its decentralization, it was the smallest principality,
that of Weimar, which produced its most universal
poet, Goethe. And, on the contrary, when Germany
became a large centralized empire, the spirit of "pro-
vincialism" which exasperated Nietzsche spread out
among the men of letters.
Thus we come to a more subtle yet basic view of the
influences that the milieu has over literature. It is not
a question of denying these influences, but of recog-
nizing that they are so manifold and so ambivalent
that it is impossible to give them any common national
denominator. The heat of the sun, the height of the
hills, the flavor of the fruits, the songs of the roads, the
162
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist?
tales of the nursery, the invention of the railroads,
the nostalgia of an aristocracy, or the hopes of a rev-
olution, all these undoubtedly condition literary pro-
duction, but resolve into an ever moving complex of
circumstantial, transitory, international, and local phe-
nomena which tend more to differentiate than to unify
the literary characteristics within the same nation.
To sum up and to use the language of mathematics,
we may say that national characteristics are negligible
quantities infinitesimals compared with geographical
and secular characteristics. The literary factor is much
more dependent on the soil than on the nation, and
still more on time than on space. And above all, these
factors have little importance in comparison to the in-
dividual peculiarities whose sovereign influence dom-
inates all literary creation.
The idea that a work of art is fatally marked by its
national origin often expresses a desire more than a
statement of fact: the desire to melt ait into that ingot
of prejudice, egotisms, and mysticisms out of which
nationalism forges its armor. Above all, the nationalist
wants to debase the mind by denying its independence
and thereby its liberty. He wants to place those who
create under the domination of obscure and immanent
forces which are supposed to spring from the depths
of the earth to fashion their works. The nation wants
to be God vis-a-vis its creatures. It wants to be able to
say to the most independent among them, to the
writer: "Without my blood and breath, you are noth-
ing." The "Volldsche Beobachter" of May 21, 1931,
always in the avant garde of frankness when it comes
to persecuting thought, clearly expresses this when it
says: "There must no longer be a single artist who
163
Suzanne Labin
does not create out of the nation and with the nation
in mind/'
This attempt to enslave the mind explains why
authors were so often consecrated national writers by
nationalist movements which needed literary prestige.
Not until the 19th Century, when Italy had achieved
national unity, was Dante proclaimed a specifically
Italian national genius. Before this time, he was con-
sidered as a mere genius, inspired by ancient human-
ism and medieval mysticism, inferior to Petrarch; he
was almost entirely ignored in the 17th and 18th Cen-
turies. During his lifetime, the "fatherland" not only
failed to recognize itself in him, but even persecuted
Mm. Banished from Florence, condemned to be burnt
at the stake in Rome, Dante composed his own epi-
taph: "Here I rest, I, Dante, the outlaw, born of Flor-
ence, mother without love." Because Goethe refused
to associate himself with the lyrico-nationalist move-
ment of his anti-Napoleonic colleagues, he was de-
tested by his fellow countrymen who only crowned
him with the German colors when they became aware
of the prestige which the poet enjoyed in foreign
lands. In other cases, a genius is proclaimed "national".
only through reaction to a public craze for foreign
authors. It is in this way that Shakespeare was lifted
to the rank of a national idol in England in order to
counterattack the taste of the public for French works.
One would think that so many efforts to endow
literature with national characteristics would end by
being successful; but experience has proved that de-
crees are powerless to shape literature. As soon as Dr,
Goebbels decreed: "German art of the future decades
will be heroic, of a steel-like romanticism, stripped of
164
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist?
sentimentality, national with pathos," German art dis-
appeared. As soon as Dr. Averbach, of the GPU
Literary Section, announced the six commandments:
"Proletarian art rejects individualism, Proletarian art
must be an arm of the class, etc.," Soviet art disap-
peared. Each time that the State has wanted to give a
national uniform to the works of the mind, it has Tailed
these works. For by the very act of submitting, art
changes its nature. By abandoning its independence
and its spontaneity which are the essentials of its
magic, it becomes as distant to its true nature as the
body of a mummy to the pretty woman who once in-
habited it.
Far from making the specific characteristics flourish,
the intentional search for national peculiarity results in
the most distressing monotony. Let us take the exam-
ple, which is so symptomatic, of patriotic literature.
In spite of and doubtlessly because of its premedi-
tated desire to assume the most typical colors of its
soil, patriotic literature loses all personality and ends
up by using everywhere the same literary gems, such
as: the salt of the earth, the old virtues of the race, the
impure blood of the enemy, the glorious banner, etc.
Many among those who are shocked if artistic rules
are imposed on literature, for instance, that all stories
must have a happy end, admit unhesitatingly national-
istic decrees. What the State urges with the greatest
insistence upon its writers, and the public accepts with
the greatest indulgence is this obligatory impregnation
of art and literature with national colors. A rather
strange obligation since the so-called national charac-
teristics should not need to be solicited, for they are
supposed to arise spontaneously from the depths of the
165
Suzanne Labin
writer, owing to the simple fact that this writer was
born in the very same hundred thousand (or twenty
million) square miles as his fellow citizen,
We need but a little reflection in order to under-
stand why national characteristics have so little weight
in literature.
The first reason is that the life of man at least when
we contemplate deeply, that is to say, in the way in
which it gives rise to great literature changes little
from country to country. This consideration holds true
for all culture. If we mean by culture the set of the
highest works of thought and art, the great achieve-
ments of the most intimate human aspirations, which
merge with the most universal desires, it is clear that
culture escapes national divisions. This high level of
the mind is articulated by themes, concepts, feelings,
but not by birth countries. In the face of its ultimate
problems, culture knows neither Germany nor France
nor Spain nor Russia, but man and woman, the true
and the false, the good and the bad, the beautiful and
the ugly, confidence and doubt, impotence and desire,
pain and pleasure, reality and dream.
If, on the contrary, we mean by culture a sort of
"smoother average" of judgments and behavior which
are most commonly accepted, then we could perhaps
be able to find some common traits in the ordinary
bearers of this culture in one nation, but then these
traits would not apply to the true creators. "That an
artist is the representative of the society of his time is
above all true of second-rate artists," Faguet remarked.
Likewise an artist cannot be first-rate and national
since, to be national, he must resemble the vast multi-
166
Do National Characteristics in Literature Exist?
tude and, consequently, renounce the quality of orig-
inality which distinguishes the creator.
The second reason for the absence of national char-
acteristics in literature lies in the cultural interchanges
which take place more rapidly than racial inter-
changes. If it is already difficult to find racial charac-
teristics among the populations, what would it be to
find them in their books! There are no writers worthy
of this name who have not read, or who are not in-
spired by numerous foreign, ancient, or modern mod-
els. The Dutchman Erasmus studied in Paris, taught
in Oxford, traveled in Italy and died in Switzerland:
the influence of Italian writers went as far as giving
a poetic language to Spain; Lomonossov, the MaUierbe
of Russia, was a poet of German culture, etc. Since the
search for inspiration is, as all human instincts, uni-
versal and non-national, it is all over the world that
literary messages of a creative mine awake echos and
bring forth new literary trends.
That is why the cultured public has always sought
the eternal man in the heroes of works that it prized;
that is why lasting success has always crowned authors
who showed themselves capable of escaping a partic-
ularist perspective in order to reach the universal and
the substantial which we are common to all men.
Yes, to all men; for, to the great sorrow of all those
who would like to give an exclusive lyrical essence to
national unity, the main forms of civilization have be-
come very similar all over the world. Everywhere men
praise even if they do not apply themthe same fun-
damental moral rules: "You shall not steal, you shall
not betray, you shall not Mil;" everywhere they gather
into families, bury their dead, seek privacy for their
167
Suzanne Labin
personal pleasures, send their children to school, work
in the fields, shops, offices; fear death, cherish love;
everywhere they set down their ideas and their pas-
sions in books, statues, pictures, vases, fabrics,
melodies; everywhere they compute with the same
arithmetic, weigh with the same scales, build accord-
ing to the same geodesy, grasp with the same hands;
everywhere they look at their children with the same
light in their eyes and the same smile on their lips . . .
. . and what matter the outline of the eyes or the
pattern of the lips! It is the light, it is the smile, which
constitute the source, the object and the banner of
culture.
168
JEROME MELLQUIST was
bom in and lives in Paris.
His books are: The Emer-
gence of an American Art,
Paul Rosenfeld: Voyageur in
tlie Arts, What They Said:
Postscript to Art Criticism.
Mr. Mellquist has lectured at
New York University, Har-
vard's Salzburg Seminar, and
at conferences in France, Hol-
land, Belgium, Switzerland
and Italy. He was designated
a Commissioner for the 1950
Venice Biennale; and he has
written catalogues for many
museums and galleries.
Transformers of Taste
Special plaques of merit should be inscribed for the
Transformers of Taste. These men have not, like John
Buskin, trumpeted a gleaming new order where the
penitent would reject the dross of contemporary life
for the Gothic virtues of hammered gold backgrounds,
flamboyant arches and quiring angels. Nor have they
undertaken, as did the Pre-Raphaelites, to tint more
dainty patterns for the effete. Theirs has been a more
hearty role. Situated often amidst the very flux of traf-
fic, they would preserve, against all timidity and way-
wardness, some of the most valiant talents in their
time. Never piling for a vanished age, they preferred
169
Jerome Meilquist
rather to build from the stones of their immediate
neighborhood and they have built so well that men
still find shelter there. These intermediaries of con-
struction, these esthetic protectors whether a Durand-
Ruel, an Ambroise Vollard, or an Alfred Stieglitz,
nevertheless have not always been rightly ap-
plauded, for their effectiveness has not been properly
understood.
The first of these esthetic transformers, Paul Dur-
and-Ruel (who was born in 1831) did not, in fact,
propose any such mission for his life. Though his par-
ents conducted an art-goods shop in the Rue St-
Jacques (where the medieval presence of Francois
Villon still invests its ageless comers), and though
such painters as Daumier, Gericault and Delacroix
would often come to buy their supplies, still it was
thought that he would follow another career. Once,
after his parents had shifted their quarters to the
Right Rank, where, on the Rue Lafitte, they also
started to hold exhibitions, he interrupted his studies
so as to help them in the business. Returning then to
his studies he thought to enter either the clergy or the
military and had actually enrolled at St. Cyr, where he
quickly excelled. Becoming dangerously ill at twenty,
he withdrew from the French West Point and there-
after devoted himself to the father's affairs. He ex-
panded his knowledge by studying Collections in
Hamburg, Belgium and elsewhere on the Continent,
while he also did not neglect England. And he would
always maintain that his support to the Ecole of 1830
to that master of storm-shot landscapes Theodore
Rousseau, to the peasant-ritualist Millet, to Corot, and
to still other painters of that movement would stand
170
Transformers of Taste
as his principal legacy to the future. History has or-
dered It otherwise, and today his name is inseparably
united with the school he so indomitably upheld-the
French Impressionists.
His first contact with this group occurred in London,
where he had fled during the Franco-Prussian War.
Exposing a few samples of his older men, he one day
was accosted by Monet, presently saw his work, and
soon exhibited it Pissarro also would come to know
him during the London exile, and then, upon the war's
conclusion, he would likewise see the work of Renoir,
Manet, Sisley and Berthe Morisot Such contacts auto-
matically involved further ones with Degas, Mary
Cassatt, and minor contributors to the effort, until at
length his gallery had become their center.'
^ Now Durand-Ruel was no professional reformer set-
ting out to overturn accepted values in the picture
realm. And yet, while a conservative both in politics
and religion, he did not, on the other hand, stumble
upon these heretical talents by a felicitous fluke. Some-
how he was attuned to their change. If a Manet trans-
posed the electricity snapping in the air of the late
70s, he could respond to its flush of incandescence;
Renoir, with his hot and overflowing forms, also found
him ready; so did Monet, whether with his railroad
sites or his Normandy landings, and the sooty passages
of Pissarro required no second thought. He matched
them, in short, but in another sense. Where they could
articulate the unobjectified thoughts, feelings and sen-
sations of industrialized France after a disastrous War,
he, by some instantaneous thrust of the imagination'
could communicate their values to a more practical
world, and thus enable the artist to live. He might be
171
Jerome Mellquist
regarded, indeed, as the trustworthy paterfamilias to
the entire group of painters purchasing their work,
supplying them money, visiting them, encouraging,
suggesting, and battling forever against prejudice.
Battling, he could, like mythological heroes, devise
fresh arms against Ms adversities. Times shut down
upon him in the late 70*s, but he recovered. Then,
when his most dependable financial backer had failed,
in 1884, he was confronted by insolvency. Informing
his painters that he might capsize, he received from at
least two of them Renoir and Monet replies* fasci-
nating by their contrasts. Touched, Renoir wrote in
May, 1884, "Whatever help I can now render you may
be very small. But if you need me, I beg you to consider
me as completely at your disposal. Regardless of what
happens, you may count on my absolute devotion."
Monet, who possessed a market sagacity rare among
artists, did not conceal his dismay at learning that the
dealer might be obliged to sell off quickly a large
number of paintings. "I have been subjected to a ter-
rible disquiet/ 7 he confides, May 15, 1884, "and I wish
to be kept informed as to what happens to you
whether good or bad. If you can possibly grant me a
moment, do write; I am most anxious to know if you
can pull yourself out of this situation, and how."
Briefly he complains about his health, and continues:
"Renoir writes that he has advised you to sell our
canvases cheaply. If that will help you to escape this
trouble, don't hesitate we can produce still other pic-
tures; but if not," and here his caution predominates
"be extremely careful, as this could do much harm. It
* Cited with permission of Durand-Ruel, Paris.
172
Transformers of Taste
will be necessary, I fear, for us to sell on our own
account, for surely we can't ask you for money if you
can't escape this predicament ....**
Still later, of course, Monet would sometimes com-
mit Ms pictures to other merchants, though Renoir
never shifted. As for the immediate contingency, what
saved the House of Durand-Ruel was a coup of the
greatest audacity. It seems that through, the agency of
Mary Cassatt, an opportunity had come up for the
Impressionists to be exhibited through the American
Art Association in New York. This show, which oc-
curred in April, 1S36, led several American critics not
only to applaud it, but to uphold its organizer as "The
Apostle of Impressionism.** Certainly Durand-Ruel
who had accompanied the paintings to the States, soon
made many converts, and effective ones too, for they
bought generously. Even the National Academy, then
located in quarters resembling the Palazzo Ducale,
near Madison Square, sedately showed the pictures
upon its walls. Nor did the intelligentsia scoff, as in
the French, capital. For once, at least, the Americans
proved that they could be as supple esthetically as
they were in adjusting themselves to the dangers of
pioneer life. Later yet, after difficulties with the cus-
toms and American competitors, the visiting French
impresario decided to open a New York branch (which
was to be maintained until early January, 1950).
Subsequent chapters in the story merely furnish a
crescendo upon the same theme. The gallery pros-
pered, collectors yielded, tibe public also surrendered.
An entire generation would have been transformed in
its taste. Granted that the artists had furnished the
fundamental material, granted too that Durand-Ruel
173
Jerome Mellquist
himself could not always remain flexible towards later
men such as Cezanne and Van Gogh, still, his hand
did much to shape the taste of the ensuing period.
His triumph was marred by but a single irony. Ap-
parently, the tempests caused by his original assaults
against conventionality had not been forgiven by the
official mind. At least it was only one year before his
death in 1922 that Paul Durand-Ruel was decorated
with the Legion d'Honneur.
But if Durand-Ruel had overlooked Cezanne, this
lapse was speedily corrected. Almost equally effective
at modifying taste, though arising a generation later,
was Ambroise Vollard. He too did not intend to devote
himself to pictures, though soon after coming to France
from the Island of Reunion, which is a smaller depart-
ment than that of the Seine, he was combing the book
stalls in Marseilles for both literature and painting. He
had set out at first to become a lawyer, in 1889, and
he had studied briefly at Montpelier, but then, quitting
that profession, he would settle in Paris and it was
there, perhaps because of a reduced diet consisting of
sea-biscuits, that he understood what he would have
to do to master his competitors.
Vollard and this has been recalled by Mme. William
Aspenwall Bradley, whose husband encouraged the
dealer to assemble his memoirs possessed a pair of
skipping eyes. He noted how Pere Tanguy, an obscure
color-merchant, had accumulated a stack of paintings
by still-unrecognized men like Cezanne, Gauguin and
Van Gogh. And having opened his own modest shop,
he eventually arranged, in 1894, to expose a substantial
cross-section of Cezanne's work. The public, of course,
hooted, and Vollard has maliciously recorded some of
174
Transformers of Taste
the blind dismissals to which the pantmgs were sub-
jected. Endowed with an almost caricatural gift of
memory, as well as a capacity to select what he want-
ed, this taste-changer would compile many anecdotes
on the stupidities of an era. And he would fortify his
ambitions as a writer by publishing his reminiscences
on his talks with Degas, Renoir and Cezanne. Possibly
it was he who first recalled that Cezzanne, when ques-
tioned about the portrait he was doing on this admirer
of his work, replied that he had, after ninety revisions,
become mildly satisfied with the shirt-front!
A gourmet and a man of almost a feminine fastidi-
ousness in taste, Vollard would incite his particular
friends and still other qualified persons to long dinners
in his cai}6s upon the Rue Lafitte. It has been claimed
that his wines exemplified the same rare selectiveness as
his paintings, and that the vintages were equally ripe.
He was a prime story-teller too, and it is said that his
book Recollections of a Picture-dealer derived from
the following anecdote. When asked which faith he
preferred, Vollard said his first choice would be the
Jewish because one's head was always covered in the
synagogue. A second choice would be the Protestant
faith, since it habitually warmed its churches. As for
the Catholics, not only did they relegate the worship-
pers to a frigid temperature, but the head was exposed
to all the draughts pouring down from the high and
icy arches. A visitor who had relished this recital urged
him to set down his memoirs, and hence, perhaps, the
nucleus of a book.
But apart from exhibiting pictures and chiding the
stupidities of those who blustered out their accusations
against them, the real affection of Vollard was centered
175
Jerome MeHquist
in Ms book-publishing. He would begin as early as
1895, his first project being Les Peinires Grateurs,
which included such contemporaries as Renoir, Vuil-
lard, Maurice Denis, Sisely and Odilon Redon. Shortly
afterwards, he observed from his perch on the top of a
Paris bus that one of his neighbors had wrapped a
scarf about his neck so as to conceal the absence of a
collar. The same passenger was gripping a large por-
trait, apparently his own. Unfortunately, it projected
so far into the aisle that it impeded the other passen-
gers, until the conductor objected: "Why don't you
bring along your wardrobe?" Whereupon his customer
replied, "I don't have one." Then, as the man de-
scended, Vollard learned that he was Verlaine and that
he had written Parallelement. Snapping up this volume
at a bookstall, the ambitious publisher decided that he
would do it in a de luxe edition. Nevertheless once the
book had been printed at the Imprimerie Nationale,
he ran up against the authorities, who, though French,
could not appreciate a certain frankness in the text.
Still later, after Vollard had issued Daphnis and Chloe,
with drawings by Bonnard, a renowned bibliophile
rejected the volume. "Ah, no!" he moaned, "that would
be letting the Devil into my library!"
Nevertheless, every such rebuff merely implanted a
greater determination into the publisher, and he re-
solved that he would prevail. When he died in 1939,
he had, at any rate, piled up a list astonishing both as
to its diversity and excellence. He had done the Imita-
tion of Christ,, with suitable canticles-in-line by Maurice
Denis; he had got Rodin to furnish earthy watercolors
to a novel by Octave Mirbeau, the rather gamy natural-
ist; he persuaded Dufy to add his gayety to La Belle En-
176
Transformers of Taste
font, by Eugene Montf ort, and he had employed Degas 7
morbid reflections on a bordello as an accompaniment
to a conte by de Maupassant, la Maison Tellier. Again,
he had commissioned Chagall to do 100 gouaches for
La-Fontaine, thus getting one abulist to match another,
and subsequently would have the Russian artist
embellish the Dead Souls o Gogol. Even Picasso
would be enlisted for a tale of Balzac and he would
virtually imprison Rouault while goading him into
completing a series of colored lithographs to illustrate
a volume of his own as well as still other texts.
Such efforts enabled Vollard to reshape taste both by
advancing the art of the Post-Impressionists and by
a new possibility in the publishing of well-executed art-
books. Perhaps he did not uphold any major contem-
porary movement with the same steadfastness of
Durand-Ruel (the Cubists, after all, having found their
principal merchant-connoisseurs in both Kahnweiler
and Uhde); but he did impose a new respect for the
interregnum dominated by Cezanne, and here, at least,
he scored a decisive measure of esthetic change.
Alfred Stieglitz, the last in this triumvirate of taste-
modifiers, would say that he had anticipated his time
by thirty years, though it could also be said that h
had long since outlived Ms own beginnings. Bom at
Hoboken, N.J., in 1864, he first steeped himself in the
portraits and genre-paintings of a typical Victorian
home, and then, sent to Europe for an education, re-
mained there ten years, from 1881 to 1891. Deserting
his intended profession of engineer, he turned to
photography and soon had surpassed most of his con-
temporaries. His pictures of Black Forest peasants,
Berlin householders, Venetian pumps and Swiss Alps,
177
Jerome Mellqulst
secured Mm many prizes, and he resolved that he
would further advance the level o his medium. Re-
turning to the U.S. he associated himself with other
photographers, urged more compelling standards of
workmanship and undertook the editing of Camera
Notes, the official magazine of the New York Camera
Club.
Too spirited for the more stodgy members of this
organization, he withdrew and, along with like-minded
rebels, founded Photo- Secession, a rival group devoted
more strictly to the ideas of Pictorial Photography (a
movement holding that photography, like painting,
must submit what could qualify as a picture, whether
in composition, tonal value, or so-called line, and not
rely merely upon its chemical or naturalistic attri-
butes ) . As an additional support to such a program, he
established a quarterly, Camera Work, insisting, when
it came to reproductions, upon a surpassing quality.
Each photogravure, for instance, was manufactured at
the Bruckmann Verlag in Munich, and, during a life-
time from 1903 to 1917 (when importation difficulties
made its continuance impossible) it showed but three
or four typographical errors. Thus Photo-Secession,
taken either as a movement in photography or a
further departure in magazine-publishing, promul-
gated a world-standard which other craftsmen are still
ready to respect As for the American wing alone, its
work is historic: Clarence White, who memorialized
the plaintive shades in Ohio villages; Edward Steichen,
whose best portrait gave "headlight" eyes to J. P.
Morgan, Sr.; Frank Eugene, who successfully mingled
photography with etching, and a miscellany of others.
178
Transformers of Taste
Stieglitz too, once he had returned to the States, di-
rected his camera against Fifth Avenue coaches, side-
walk peddlers, the tattered folk of the East Side, and
then, somewhat later, would produce his democratic
classic, The Steerage, where the humble immigrants
eye the approaching shore as if this would erase all
their aches from the homeland. As a result of a long-
extended campaign, therefore, Stieglitz had greatly
modified photographic methods, as well as getting his
associates to do more thinking than they had done
before.
Yet he would alter pictorial preoccupations in still
another direction by converting himself into a living
wedge for the proliferation of Modern Art in America.
This implied a certain shift, to be sure, since his attic-
galleries at 291 Fifth Avenue had theretofore been
exclusively relegated to exhibitions of photography.
Starting in 1908, however, he would demand that the
galleries of "291" as soon it would be affectionately
termed by the public should also be allowed open to
painters, and particularly to the revolutionaries then
upsetting Europe. What followed was a barrage against
complacency: Matisse in 190S 7 the Douanier Rousseau
two years later, Cezanne in 1911, while Picasso,
Braque, African Negro Sculpture, Brancusi, Severini
and still other incendiaries would also be presented.
This campaign, it should be remembered, had its in-
ception five and one-half seasons before the Armory
Show of 1913, and it had introduced its bevy of mod-
erns of some 167,000 visitors before its more publicized
successor had opened its doors to the hordes.
Once having subdued his adversaries and thus hav-
179
Jerome Mellquist
ing transformed the pattern of the coming period at
least so far as both Post-Impressionism and Cubism
were concerned Stieglitz next unraveled some diffi-
culties for the emerging Americans. Stieglitz when
Marsden Hartley lived on four dollars a week to paint
Ms Maine pastorals; when John Marin lacked a gallery
for his watercolors; when Max Weber and A. Walko-
witz were youthful unknowns; when Arthur G. Dove
faced the artist's usual dilemma upon foregoing illus-
tration inserted himself between them and a boiling
public. Stieglitz met the press, punctured the postur-
ings of the academic, and upheld the dignity of a diffi-
cult cause. Furthermore, acting as a voluntary (and
therefore unpaid) intermediary, he cajoled collectors
into nibbling at the new men's work, and thus gradu-
ally enabled the fledgling American revoltees to sus-
tain themselves as a result of their labors.
Though "291" was extinguished by World War I, it
found a rebirth later in the Intimate Gallery, and then,
after the *20's ? in An American Place. Always Stieglitz
presided, even when, at the last, he had been forbid-
den to photograph any further and could continue his
combats only as a semi-invalid. Even so, he had long
since persuaded his countrymen into an acceptance of
the painters he championed, thus giving further incre-
ment to what he had already done as a "changer" in
photography and for the incoming Cubists and Post-
Impressionists.
If sometimes then it would seem that he had tran-
scended mere art and gone over into prophecy since he
always regarded the worker in a material as the essen-
tial agent for indispensable social and spiritual change
180
Transformers of Taste
still he ? Wee his predecessors Paul Durand-Ruel and
Ambroise Vollard, had basically committed himself to
the transformation of men's tastes. And as such he,
along with these, his worthy forerunners, would have
added his leaven to the future.
181
GILBERT HIGHET was bom
in Scotland in 1906. He was a
don at St. John's College, Ox-
ford, from 1932 until 1938
and then became Professor of
Greek and Latin at Columbia
University and has been there
ever since. Mr. Highet is chief
book critic of Harper's Maga-
zine. He conducts a weekly
radio program of talks on
modern literature which is
carried by a dozen stations all
over the United States. The
Classical Tradition, The Art
of Teaching, People, Places, 6-
Books, and Juvenal, The Satir-
ist are several of his books.
Kitsch
If you have ever passed an hour wandering through an
antique-shop (not looking for anything exactly, but
simply looking) you must have noticed how your taste
gradually grows numb, and then if you stay becomes
perverted. You begin to see unsuspected charm in those
hideous pictures of plump girls fondling pigeons, you
develop a psychopathic desire for spinning-wheels and
cobblers* benches, you are apt to pay out good money
for a bronze statuette of Otto Von Bismarck, with
a metal hand inside a metal frock-coat and metal
182
Kitsch
pouches under his metallic eyes. As soon as you take
the things home, you realize that they are revolting. And
yet they have a sort of horrible authority; you don't
like them; you know how awful they are; but it is a
tremendous effort to drop them in the garbage, where
they belong.
To walk along a whole street of antique-shops that
is an experience which shakes the very soul. Here is a
windows full of bulbous Chinese deities; here is another
littered with Zulu assegais, Indian canoe-paddles, and
horse-pistols which won't fire; the next shop-front is
stuffed with gaudy Italian majolica vases, and the
next, even worse, with Austrian potterytiny ladies
and gentlemen sitting on lace cushions and wearing
lace ruffles, with every frill, every wrinkle and reticula-
tion translated into porcelain: pink, stiff, but fortu-
nately not unbreakable. The 19th Century produced an
appalling amount of junky art like this, and sometimes
I imagine that clandestine underground factories are
continuing to pour it out like illicit drugs.
There is a name for such stuff in the trade, a word
apparently of Russian origin, kitsch: it means vulgar
showoff, and it is applied to anything that took a lot
of trouble to make and is quite hideous.
It is paradoxical stuff, kitsch. It is obviously bad; so
bad that you can scarcely understand how any human
being would spend days and weeks making it, and
how anybody else would buy it and take it home and
keep it and dust it and leave it to his heirs. It is ter-
ribly ingenious, and terribly ugly, and utterly useless;
and yet it has one of the qualities of good art which
is that, once seen, it is not easily forgotten. Of course,
183
Gilbert Highet
It is found in aE the arts: think of Milan Cathedral, or
the statues in Westminster Abbey, or Liszt's settings of
Schubert songs.
There is kitsch in the world of books also. I collect
it It is horrible, but 1 enjoy it The gem of my collec-
tion is the work of the Irish novelist Mrs. Amanda
McKittrick Ros, whose masterpiece, Delina DeUney,
was published about 1900. It is a romantic tale, telling
how Delina, a fisherman's daughter from Erin Cottage,
was beloved by Lord Gifford, heir to Columba Castle,
and after much suffering, even imprisonment, married
him. The story is dramatic (not to say impossible) but
it is almost lost to view under the luxuriant style. Here
is a sentence in which Mrs. Ros explains that her hero-
ine used to earn extra cash by doing needlework.
She tried hard to assist in keeping herself a stranger
to her poor old father's slight income by the use of the
finest production of steel, whose blunt edge eyed
the reely covering with marked greed, and offered its
sharp dart to faultless fabrics of flaxen fineness.
Revolting, but distinctive. Here again is Lord Gifford
saying goodbye to his sweetheart:
My darling virgin! my queen! my Delina! I am just
in time to hear the toll of a parting bell strike its
heavy weight of appalling softness against the weakest
fibers of a heart of love, arousing and tickling its dor-
mant action thrusting tie dart of evident separation
deeper into its tubes of tenderness, and fanning the
flame, already unextinguishable, into volumes of blaze.
Mrs. Ros had a remarkable command of rhetoric, and
could coin a memorable phrase. She described her
hero's eyes as "glittering jet revolvers"; and when he
became ill, she said he fell "into a state of lofty fever'*
184
Kitsch
(commoners have high fever, but lords have lofty
fever). She was an astonishing writer, and I only re-
gret that I have never seen her poetry, too. I know one
volume was called Poems of Puncture, and I have seen
the opening of her lyric written on first visiting St
Paul's Cathedral:
Holy Moses, take a look,
Brain and brawn in every nook!
Such genius is indestructible. Soon some earnest stu-
dent will be writing a Ph.D. thesis on Mrs. Amanda
McKittridk Ros, and thus (as she herself might put it)
conferring on her dewy brow the laurels of concrete
immortality.
Next to Mrs. Ros in my collection of kitsch is the
work of the Scottish poet William McGonagall (fl.
1885). One stanza will show his quality. It is from a
poem written after a voyage across the Atlantic:
Oh! Mighty City of New York, you are wonderful to
behold,
Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told;
They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my
eye,
Because many of them are thirteen stories high.
And here, from the same shelf, is an equally terrible
poem on the same subject by our own contemporary,
Ezra Pound:
My City, my beloved,
Thou art a maid with no breasts
Thou art slender as a silver reed.
Listen to me, attend me!
And I will breathe into thee a soul,
And thou shalt live for ever.
185
Gilbert Highet
The essence of this kind of literary trash is incon-
gruity. The kitsch writer is always sincere; he really
means to say something important; he has a lofty
spiritual message to bring to an unawakened world, or
eke he has had a powerful experience which he must
communicate to others. And then, he chooses the
wrong form. Either he picks an elevated and difficult
style which he is not skillful enough to use., or else he
constructs one of his own, mounts it, and falls off. And,
worse than that, he adopts the wrong attitude to the
subject like Ezra Pound from Idaho addressing New
York City as a maid with no "breasts, and telling it to
listen so that he could immortalize it. It is like climb-
ing Mount Everest in order to carve a picture of Pop-
eye the Sailor on the east face. It is like the Boston
Philharmonic tuning up for ten minutes, and then
playing "Pepsi-Cola Hits the Spot."
Bad love-poetry, bad religious poetry and prose,
bad novels, both autobiographical and historical one
can form a collection of kitsch simply by reading with
an eye wide open. College songs bristle with it. The
works of Father Divine are full of it, all the more de-
lightful because they are usually incomprehensible.
Not long ago one of the Indian mystics, Sri Rama-
krishna, delighted connoisseurs by describing the In-
dian scriptures (in a phrase which almost sets itself
to kitsch-music) as
Fried in the butter of knowledge and steeped in the
honey of love.
Bad funeral poetry is also a rich mine of the stuff.
For instance, here is the opening of a jolly lament by
Stephen Spender:
186
Kitsch
Death is another milestone on their way
With laughter on their lips and with winds blowing
round them
They record simply
How this one excelled all others in making driving
belts.
(You can see how he took Browning's Grammarians
Funeral, threw away the humor, the marching metre,
and the humanism, and substituted a Stakhanovist
speedup, plus wind).
Or take a delicious couplet from Archibald Mac-
Leish: this describes Harry Crosby and, I suppose, Mr.
Hemingway:
He walks with Ernest in the streets in Saragossa
They are drunk their mouths are hard
they say que cosa.
From an earlier romantic period, consider this ab-
surd poem, in which Coleridge tried to express the
profound truth that men and animals are neighbors in
a hard world, but made the fundamental mistake of
putting it into a monolog addressed to a donkey:
Poor Ass! Thy master should have learnt to show
Pity best taught by fellowship of Woe!
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee brother spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of peace and mild Equality to dwell . . .
It is really delightfully idiotic. Once you get the
taste for this kind of thing, it is possible to find pleas-
ure in hundreds of experiences which you might have
thought merely boring or anaesthetic: in bad transla-
tions, in abstract painting, in modern erotic poems. Dr.
Samuel Johnson, with his strong sense of humor, had
187
Gilbert Highet
a fancy for it, and used to repeat a poem made by "an
inferiour domestick" in celebration of a nobleman's
wedding:
When the Duke of Leeds shall married be
To a fine young lady of high quality.
How happy will that gentlewoman be
In his Grace of Leeds's good company.
The world is so full of masses of kitsch that our grasp
can never exceed our reach.
You can even find this stuff in the work of writers
who are normally first-rate. There is quite a lot in
Shakespeare: for instance, in The Rape of Lucrece.
Shelley drops into it pretty often. Only a few artists
have an ear so delicate that they never produce it
Mozart was incapable of it, but Beethoven wrote lots
of it, including what was once one of his most famous
pieces, The Battle of Vittona.
One of my favorite pieces of bad art is a statue in
Rockefeller Center, New York. It is supposed to repre-
sent Atlas, the Titan condemned to carry the sky on his
shoulders. That was an ideal of sombre, massive tra-
gedy: greatness and suffering combined as in Hercules
or Prometheus, But this version displays Atlas as a
powerful moron, with a tiny little head, rather like the
pan-fried young men who appear in the health maga-
zines. Instead of supporting the heavens, he is lifting
a hollow spherical metal balloon, which must weigh
about 30 pounds: it is transparent, and quite empty;
yet he is balancing insecurely on one foot like a furni-
ture-mover walking upstairs with a beach-ball; and he
is scowling like a mad baboon. You feel that if he ever
gets the cage up, he will drop it; or else heave it onto
188
Kitsch
a Fifth Avenue bus. It is a supremely ridiculous statue,
and delights me every time I see it
Perhaps you think this is a depraved taste. But
really it is an extension of experience. At one end,
Homer. At the other, Amanda McKittriclc Ros. At one
end, Hamlet. At the other, McGonagall, who is best
praised in his own inimitable words:
The poetry is moral and sublime
And in my opinion nothing could be more fine.
True genius there does shine so bright
Like unto the stars of night
189
Creators of the Past
It is interesting to consider the differing reactions that
various people receive from one work of art. There
may be ten different reactions, shades of meaning,
nuances of color, acceptance or rejection of the famil-
iar or unknown. All, all these thoughts and reflec-
tions might indeed be quite unlike the effect which the
artist desired. What drives the creator on? What
strange need in him makes him create in spite of a
small understanding audience? How lofty are his
dreams and creations! How far away from mundane
life! A minute fly has a distinct advantage over hu-
mans. It can see anywhich way out of its hundred
eyes; and if it had intelligence, it could receive through
each separate eye stimulating individual impulses.
The wise man looks for, in creation, not only an
embodiment of his own personal experiences. He notes
also a new view, a special oddness, a particular flavor
which he may add and compress into his own mind.
He may build his experience and taste beyond his
beginnings. Then he can grow out of his confining
environment and make his life more meaningful.
The following three excerpts from Washington Irv-
ing, Oscar Wilde and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
reveal to the reader unique literary minds. The orig-
inal insight of Irving, the wit and brilliance of Wilde,
and the universal poetry of Goethe are an excellent
cross-section. Again, we are reminded that, through-
out the centuries, thinkers, no matter what their na-
190
Creators of the Past
tionalities, were confronted by the same perplexing
problems. They undoubtedly survived because of their
dedication and their inner assurance that truth was
on their side.
Fernando Pinna
191
WASHINGTON IRVING 1783-1859
The Mutability of Literature
A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In time's great period shall return to nought,
I know that all the muse's heavenly lays,
With toil o sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;
That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.
Drummond of Hawthornden.
There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in
which we naturally steal away from noise and glare,
and seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our
reveries and build our air-castles undisturbed. In such
a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of
Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wander-
ing thought which one is apt to dignify with the name
of reflection; when suddenly an interruption of mad-
cap boys from Westminster School, playing at football,
broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place,
making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs
echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge
from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the
solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers
for admission to the library. He conducted me through
a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former
192
The Mutability of Literature
ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to
the chapter-house and the chamber in which Dooms-
day Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a
small door on the left. To this the verger applied a
key; it was double-locked, and opened with some
difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark,
narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door,
entered the library.
I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup-
ported by massive joints of old English oak. It was
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a con-
siderable height from the floor, and which apparently
opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient
picture of some reverend dignitary of the Church in
his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and
in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemi-
cal writers, and were much more worn by time than
use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table
with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink,
and a few pens parched by long disuse. The pkce
seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation.
It was buried deep among the massive walls of the
abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I
could only hear now and then the shouts of the school-
boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound
of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the
roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri-
ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died
away; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence
reigned through the dusky hall.
I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously
bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated
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Washington Irving
myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead
of reading, however, I was beguiled by the solemn
monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, into a
train of musing. As I looked around upon the old
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on
the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their
repose, I could not but consider the library a land of
literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are
piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in
dusty oblivion.
How much, thought I, has each of these volumes,
now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some
aching head! how many weary days! how many sleep-
less nights! How have their authors buried themselves
in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves
up from the face of man, and the still more blessed
face of nature; and devoted themselves to painful
research and intense reflection! And all for what? to
occupy an inch of dusty shelf to have the title of then-
works read now and then in a future age, by some
drowsy churchman or casual straggler like myself; and
in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such
is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere
temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that
bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling
the ear for a momentlingering transiently in echo
and then passing away like a thing that was not!
While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these
unprofitable speculations, with my head resting on my
hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the
quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps; when,
to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or
three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep;
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The Mutability of Literature
then a husky "hem"; and at length began to talk. At
first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much
troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider
had woven across it; and having probably contracted
a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of
the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more
distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent,
conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was
rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation,
what in the present day would be deemed barbarous;
but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it
in modern parlance.
It began with railings about the neglect of the world
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity,
and other such commonplace topics of literary re-
pining, and complained bitterly that it had not been
opened for more than two centuries. That the dean
only looked now and then into the library, sometimes
took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a
few moments, and then returned them to their shelves.
"What a plague do they mean,** said the little quarto,
which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric
"what a plague do they mean by keeping several
thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by
a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem,
merely to be looked at now and then by the dean?
Books were written to give pleasure and to be en-
joyed; and I would have a rule passed that the dean
should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or,
if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while
turn loose the whole School of Westminster among us,
that at any rate we may now and then have an airing/*
"Softly, my worthy friend/* replied I; "you are not
195
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aware how much better you are off than most books of
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient
library, you are like the treasured remains of those
saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the ad-
joining chapels; while the remains of your contempo-
rary mortals,, left to the ordinary course of nature,
have long since returned to dust."
"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and
looking big, "I was written for all the world, not for
the bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circu-
late from hand to hand, like other great contemporary
works; but here have I been clasped up for more than
two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey
to these worms that are playing the very vengeance
with my intestines, if you had not by chance given me
an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I
go to pieces."
"My good friend/' rejoined I, "had you been left to
the circulation of which you speak, you would long
ere this have been no more. To judge from your
physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years; very
few of your contemporaries can be at present in
existence; and those few owe their longevity to being
immured like yourself in old libraries; which, suffer
me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might
more properly and gratefully have compared to those
infirmaries attached to religious establishments, for the
benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet
fostering and no employment, they often endure to an
amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your
contemporaries as if in circulation where do we meet
with their works? What do we hear of Robert Grosse-
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The Mutability of Literature
teste, of Lincoln? No one could have toiled harder
than he for immortality. He is said to have written
nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name; but, alas!
the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few
fragments are scattered in various libraries, where
they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian.
What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the his-
torian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet?
He declined two bishoprics, that he might shut him-
self up and write for posterity: but posterity never
inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Hunting-
don, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote
a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the
world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted
of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in"
classical composition? Of his three great heroic poems
one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment; the
others are known only to a few of the curious in
literature; and as to his love-verses and epigrams,
they have entirely disappeared. What is in current
use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the
name of the Tree of Life'? Of William of Malmesbury;
of Simeon of Durham; of Benedict of Peterborough;
of John Hanvill of St. Albans; of "
"Prithee, friend, 77 cried the quarto, in a testy tone,
"how old do you think me? You are talking of authors
that lived before my time, and wrote either in Latin
or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them-
selves, and deserved to be forgotten; but I, sir, was
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned
Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native
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Washington Irving
tongue, at a time when the language had become
fixed; and indeed I was considered a model of pure
and elegant English."
(I should observe that these remarks were couched
in such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had
infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern
phraseology. )
"I cry your mercy/' said I, "for mistaking your age;
but it matters little: almost all the writers of your time
have likewise passed into forgetfulness; and De
Worde's publications are mere literary rarities among
book-collectors. The purity and stability of language,
too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity,
have been the fallacious dependence of authors of
every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert
of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of
mongrel Saxon. Even now many talk of Spenser's
Well of pure English undefined* as if the language
ever sprang from a well or fountainhead, and was not
rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpet-
ually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this
which has made English literature so extremely
mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting.
Unless thought can be committed to something more
permanent and unchangeable than such a medium,
even thought must share the fate of everything else,
and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon
the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer.
He finds the language in which he has embarked his
fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapida-
tions of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back
and beholds the early authors of his country, once
the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern
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The Mutability of Literature
writers. A few short ages have covered them with
obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the
quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he antici-
pates, will be the fate of his own work, which, how-
ever it may be admired in its day, and held up as a
model of purity, will in the course of years grow anti-
quated and obsolete; until it shall become almost as
unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk,
or one of those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the
deserts of Tartary. I declare/' added I, with some
emotion, "when I contemplate a modem library, filled
with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and
binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep; like the
good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked
out in all the splendor of military array, and reflected
that in one hundred years not one of them would be
in existence!"
"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I
see how it is; these modern scribblers have super-
seded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is
read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's 'Arcadia/ Sack-
ville's stately plays, and "Mirror for Magistrates/ or
the fine-spun euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John
Lyly."
"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened
to be so when you were last in circulation, have long
since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's 'Arcadia/ the
immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his
admirers, and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts,
delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now
scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into
obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were
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once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetu-
ated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by
name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and
wrangled at the time have likewise gone down, with
all their writings and their controversies. Wave after
wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them,
until they are buried so deep that it is only now and
antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification
antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification
of the curious.
"For my part,** I continued, *T consider this muta-
bility of language a wise precaution of Providence for
the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in
particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold
the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing
up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time,
and then fading into dust, to make way for their suc-
cessors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of
nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing.
The earth would groan with rank and excessive vege-
tation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In
like manner the works of genius and learning decline,
and make way for subsequent productions. Language
gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings
of authors who have flourished their allotted time;
otherwise, the creative powers of genius would over-
stock the world, and the mind would be completely
bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. For-
merly there were some restraints on this excessive
multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand,
which was a slow and laborious operation; they were
written either on parchment, which was expensive, so
that one work was often erased to make way for
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The Mutability of Literature
another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and ex-
tremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and
unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the
leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumula-
tion of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined
almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances
it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not
been inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that the
fountains of thought have not been broken up, and
modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inven-
tions of paper and the press have put an end to all
these restraints. They have made everyone a writer,
and enabled every mind to pour itself into print,
and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world.
The consequences are alarming. The stream of litera-
ture has swollen into a torrent augmented into a
river expanded into a sea. A few centuries since five
or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library;
but what would you say to libraries such as actually
exist containing three or four hundred thousand
volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy; and
the press going on with activity, to double and quad-
ruple the number. Unless some unforeseen mortality
should break out among the progeny of the Muse, now
that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity.
I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be
sufficient. Criticism may do much. It increases with
the increase of literature, and resembles one of those
salutary checks on population spoken of by economists.
All possible encouragement, therefore, should be
given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear
all wOl be in vain; let criticism do what it may, writers
will write, printers will print, and the world will in-
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evitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon
be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their
names. Many a man of passable information, at the
present day, reads scarcely anything but reviews; and
before long a man of erudition will be little better
than a mere walking catalogue/'
"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning
most drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you,
but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would
ask the fate of an author who was making some noise
just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was
considered quite temporary. The learned shook their
heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet,
that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and
had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing.
I think his name was Shakespeare. I presume he soon
sunk into oblivion.**
"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very
man that the literature of his period has experienced
a duration beyond the ordinary term of English litera-
ture. There rise authors now and then, who seem proof
against the mutability of language, because they have
rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of
human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we
sometimes see on the banks of a stream; which, by
their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the
mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations
of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being
swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up
many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless
weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare,
whom we behold defying the encroachments of time,
retaining in modern use the language and literature of
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The Mutability of Literature
his day ? and giving duration to many an indifferent
author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity.
But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the
tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profu-
sion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and
creepers, almost bury the whole noble plant that
upholds them."
Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and
chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit
of laughter that had wellnigh choked him, by reason
of his excessive corpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he,
as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! and
so you would persuade me that the literature of an
age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer!
by a man without learning; by a poet, forsooth a
poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of
laughter.
I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rude-
ness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his
having flourished in a less polished age. I determined,
nevertheless, not to give up my point.
"Yes " resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all
writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others
may write from the head, but he writes from the heart,
and the heart will always understand him. He is the
f aithfui portrayer of nature, whose features are always
the same, and always interesting. Prosewriters are
voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded
with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into
tediousness. But with the true poet everything is terse,
touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts
in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every-
thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He
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Washington Irving
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is
passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the
spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age
in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose
within a small compass the wealth of the language-
its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a
portable form to posterity. The setting may occasion-
ally be antiquated, and require now and then to be
renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy
and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered.
Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history.
What vast valleys of dullness, filled with monkish
legends and academical controversies! what bogs of
theological speculations! what dreary wastes of meta-
physics! Here and there only do we behold the
heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on
their widely separate heights, to transmit the pure
light of poetical intelligence from age to age."
I was just about to launch forth into culogiuins
upon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening
of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the
verger, who came to inform me that it was time to
close the library. I sought to have a parting word with
the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent; the
clasps were closed; and it looked perfectly unconscious
of all that had passed. I have been to the library two
or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it
into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all
this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether
it was another of those odd day-dreams to which I
am subject, I have never to this moment been able
to discover.
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The Mutability of Literature
Thorow earth and waters deepe,
The pen by skill doth passe;
And f eatly nyps the worldes abuse,
And shoes us in a glasse
The vertu and the vice
Of every wight alyve:
The honest-comb that bee doth make
Is not so sweet in hyve,
As are the golden leves^
That drop from poet's head!
"Which doth surmount our common talke
As farre as dross doth lead.
-"Churchyard."
205
OSCAR WILDE, 1854-1900
Lecture to Art Students
In the lecture which it is my privilege to deliver before
you tonight I do not desire to give you any abstract
definition of beauty at all. For we who are working in
art cannot accept any theory of beauty in exchange for
beauty itself, and, so far from desiring to isolate it in
a formula appealing to the .intellect, we, on the con-
trary, seek to materialise it in a form that gives joy to
the soul through the senses. We want to create it, not
to define it The definition should follow the work: the
work should not adapt itself to the definition.
Nothing, indeed, is more dangerous to the young
artist than any conception of ideal beauty: he is con-
stantly led by it either into weak prettiness or lifeless
abstraction: whereas to touch the ideal at all you must
not strip it of vitality. You must find it in life and re-
create it in art.
While, then, on the one hand I do not desire to give
you any philosophy of beautyfor, what I want to-
night is to investigate how we can create art, not how
we can talk of it on the other hand, I do not wish to
deal with anything like a history of English art.
To begin with, such an expression as English art is
a meaningless expression. One might just as well talk
of English mathematics. Art is the science of beauty,
and Mathematics, the science of truth: there is no
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Lecture to Art Students
national school of either. Indeed, a national school is
a provincial school, merely. Nor is there any such
thing as a school of art even. There are merely artists,
that is all.
And as regards histories of art, they are quite value-
less to you unless you are seeking the ostentatious
oblivion of an art professorship. It is of no use to you
to know the date of Perugino or the birthplace of
Salvator Rosa: all that you should learn about art is to
know a good picture when you see it, and a bad pic-
ture when you see it. As regards the date of the artist,
all good work looks perfectly modem: a piece of
Greek sculpture, a portrait of Velasquez they are al-
ways modern, always of our time. And as regards the
nationality of the artist, art is not national but uni-
versal. As regards archaeology, then, avoid it alto-
gether: archaeology is merely the science of making
excuses for bad art; it is the rock on which many a
young artist founders and shipwrecks; it is the abyss
from which no artist, old or young, ever returns. Or, if
he does return, he is so covered with the dust of ages
and the mildew of time, that he is quite unrecog-
nisable as an artist, and has to conceal himself for the
rest of his days under the cap of a professor, or as a
mere illustrator of ancient history. How worthless
archaeology is in art you can estimate by the fact of
its being so popular. Popularity is the crown of laurel
which the world puts on bad art Whatever is popular
is wrong.
As I am not going to talk to you, then, about the
philosophy of the beautiful, or the history of art, you
will ask me what I am going to talk about. The subject
of my lecture tonight is what makes an artist and
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Oscar Wilde
what does the artist make; what are the relations of
the artist to Ms surroundings, what is the educa-
tion the artist should get, and what is the quality of a
good work of art.
Now, as regards the relations of the artist to his
surroundings, by which I mean the age and country
in which he is born. All good art, as I said before, has
nothing to do with any particular century; but this
universality is the quality of the work of art; the condi-
tions that produce that quality are different. And
what, I think, you should do is to realise completely
your age in order completely to abstract yourself from
it; remembering that if you are an artist at all, you will
be not the mouthpiece of a century, but the master of
eternity; that all art rests on a principle, and that mere
temporal considerations are no principle at all; and
that those who advise you to make your art represent-
ative of the nineteenth century are advising you to
produce an art which your children, when you have
them, will think old-fashioned. But you will tell me
this is an inartistic age, and we are an inartistic people,
and the artist suffers much in this nineteenth century
of ours.
Of course he does. I, of all men, am not going to
deny that But remember that there never has been
an artistic age, or an artistic people, since the begin-
ning of the world. The artist has always been, and will
always be, an exquisite exception. There is no golden
age of art; only artists who have produced what is
more golden than gold.
What, you will say to me, the Greeks? were not they
an artistic people?
Well, the Greeks certainly not, but 3 perhaps, you
208
Lecture to Art Students
mean the Athenians, the citizens of one out of a thou-
sand cities.
Do you think that they were an artistic people?
Take them even at the time of their highest artistic
development, the latter part of the fifth century before
Christ; when they had the greatest poets and the
greatest artists of the antique world, when the Parthe-
non rose in loveliness at the "bidding of a Phidias, and
the philosopher spake of wisdom in the shadow of the
painted portico, and tragedy swept in the perfection
of pageant and pathos across the marble of the stage.
Were they an artistic people then? Not a bit of it
What is an artistic people but a people who love their
artists and understand their art? The Athenians could
do neither.
How did they treat Phidias? To Phidias we owe the
great era, not merely in Greek, but in all art I mean
of the introduction of the use of the living model
And what would you say if all the English bishops,
backed by the English people, came down from Exeter
Hall to the Eoyal Academy one day and took off Sir
Frederick Leighton in a prison van to Newgate on the
charge of having allowed you to make use of the living
model in your designs for sacred pictures?
Would you not cry out against the barbarism and
the Puritanism of such an idea? Would you. not explain
to them that the worst way to honour God is to dis-
honour man who is made in His image, and is the
work of His hands; and, that if one wants to paint
Christ one must take the most Christlike person one
can find, and if one wants to paint the Madonna, the
purest girl one knows?
Would you not rush off and burn down Newgate, if
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Oscar Wilde
necessary, and say that such a thing was without
parallel in history?
Without parallel? Well, that is exactly what the
Athenians did.
In the room of the Parthenon marbles, in the British
Museum, you will see a marble shield on the wall. On
it there are two figures; one of a man whose face is
half hidden, the other of a man with the godlike linea-
ments of Pericles. For having done this, for having in-
troduced into a bas relief, taken from Greek sacred
history, the image of the great statesman who was rul-
ing Athens at the time, Phidias was flung into prison
and there, in the common gaol of Athens, died, the
supreme artist of the old world.
And do you think that this was an exceptional case?
The sign of a Philistine age is the cry of immorality
against art, and this cry was raised by the Athenian
people against every great poet and thinker of their
day yEschylus, Euripides, Socrates. It was the same
with Florence in the thirteenth century. Good handi-
crafts are due to guilds, not to the people. The mo-
ment the guilds lost their power and the people rushed
in, beauty and honesty of work died.
And so, never talk of an artistic people; there never
has been such a thing.
But, perhaps you will tell me that the external
beauty of the world has almost entirely passed away
from us, that the artist dwells no longer in the midst
of the lovely surroundings which, in ages past, were
the natural inheritance of every one, and that art is
very difficult in this unlovely town of ours, where, as
you go to your work in the morning, or return from it
at eventide, you have to pass through street after
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Lecture to Art Students
street of the most foolish and stupid architecture that
the world has ever seen; architecture, where every
lovely Greek form is desecrated and defiled, and every
lovely Gothic form defiled and desecrated, reducing
three-fourths of the London houses to being, merely,
lite square boxes of the vilest proportions, as gaunt
as they are grimy, and as poor as they are pretentious
the hall door always of the wrong colour, and the
windows of the wrong size, and where, even when
wearied of the houses you turn to contemplate the
street itself, you have nothing to look at but chimney-
pot hats, men with sandwich boards, vermilion letter-
boxes, and do that even at the risk of being run over
by an emerald-green omnibus.
Is not art difficult, you will say to me, in such sur-
roundings as these? Of course it is difficult, but then
art was never easy; you yourselves would not wish it
to be easy; and, besides, nothing is worth doing except
what the world says is impossible.
Still, you do not care to be answered merely by a
paradox. What are the relations of the artist to the
external world, and what is the result of the loss of
beautiful surroundings to you, is one of the most im-
portant questions of modern art; and there is no point
on which Mr. RusMn so insists as that the decadence
of art has come from the decadence of beautiful
things; and that when the artist cannot feed his eye
on beauty, beauty goes from his work.
I remember in one of his lectures, after describing
the sordid aspect of a great English city, he draws for
us a picture of what were the artistic surroundings
long ago.
Think, he says, in words of perfect and picturesque
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Oscar Wilde
imagery, whose beauty I can but feebly echo, think of
what was the scene which presented itself, in his after-
noon walk, to a designer of the Gothic school of Pisa-
Nino Pisano or any of his men:*
On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of
brighter palaces, arched and pillared, and inlaid with
deep red porphyry, and with serpentine; along the
quays before their gates were riding troops of knights,
noble in face and form, dazzling in crest and shield;
horse and man one labyrinth of quaint colour and
gleaming light the purple, and silver, and scarlet
fringes flowing over the strong limbs and clashing
mail, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset. Opening on
each side from the river were gardens, courts, and
cloisters; long successions of white pillars among
wreaths of vine; leaping of fountains through buds of
pomegranate and orange: and still along the garden-
paths, and under and through the crimson of the pome-
granate shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest
women that Italy ever saw fairest, because purest and
thoughtfullest; trained in all high knowledge, as in all
courteous art in dance, in song, in sweet wit, in lofty
learning, in loftier courage, in loftiest loveable alike
to cheer, to enchant, or save, the souls of men. Above
all this scenery of perfect human life, rose dome and
belltower, burning with white alabaster and gold: be-
yond dome and belltower the slopes of mighty hills
hoary with olive; far in the north, above a purple sea
of peaks of solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-cloven
Carrara mountains sent up their steadfast flames of
marble summit into amber sky; the great sea itself,
scorching with expanse of light, stretching from their
feet to the Gorgonian isles; and over all these, ever pres-
ent, near or far seen through the leaves of vine, or
imaged with all its march of clouds in the Arno's stream,
or set with its depth of blue close against the golden hair
and burning cheek of lady and knight, that untroubled
* The Two Paths, Lect. 111. p. 123 (1859 ed).
212
Lecture to Art Students
and sacred sky y which was to all men, In those days of
innocent faith, indeed the unquestioned abode of spirits,
as the earth was of men; and which opened straight
through its gates of cloud and veils of dew into the
awfulness of the eternal world; a heaven in which
every cloud that passed was literally the chariot of an
angel, and every ray of its Evening and Morning
streamed from the throne of God.
What think you of that for a school of design?
And then look at the depressing, monotonous appear-
ance of any modern city, the sombre dress of men and
women, the meaningless and barren architecture, the
colourless and dreadful surroundings. Without a beau-
tiful national life, not sculpture merely, but all the arts
will die.
Well, as regards the religious feeling of the close of
the passage, I do not think I need speak about that.
Religion springs from religious feeling, art from artis-
tic feeling: you never get one from the other; unless
you have the right root you will not get the right
flower; and, if a man sees in a cloud the chariot of an
angel, he will probably paint it very unlike a cloud.
But, as regards the general idea erf the early part of
that lovely bit of prose, is it really true that beautiful
surroundings are necessary for the artist? 1 think not;
I am sure not Indeed, to me the most inartistic thing
in this age of ours is not the indifference of the public
to beautiful things, but the indifference of the artist to
the things that are called ugly. For, to the real artist,
nothing is beautiful or ugly in itself at alL With the
facts of the object he has nothing to do, but with its
appearance only, and appearance is a matter of light
and shade, of masses, of position, and of value.
213
Oscar Wilde
Appearance is, in fact, a matter of effect merely, and
and it is with the effects of nature that you have to
deal, not with the real condition of the object. What
you, as painters, have to paint is not things as they are
but things as they seem to be, not things as they
are but things as they are not.
No object is so ugly that, under certain conditions
of light and shade, or proximity to other things, it will
not look beautiful; no object is so beautiful that, under
certain conditions, it will not look ugly. I believe that
in every twenty-four hours what is beautiful looks
ugly, and what is ugly looks beautiful, once.
And, the commonplace character of so much of our
English painting seems to me due to the fact that so
many of our young artists look merely at what we may
call "ready-made beauty," whereas you exist as artists
not to copy beauty but to create it in your art, to wait
and watch for it in nature.
What would you say of a dramatist who would take
nobody but virtuous people as characters in his play?
Would you not say he was missing half of life? Well,
of the young artist who paints nothing but beautiful
things, I say he misses one half of the world.
Do not wait for life to be picturesque, but try and
see life under picturesque conditions. These conditions
you can create for yourself in your studio, for they are
merely conditions of light In nature, you must wait
for them, watch for them, choose them; and, if you wait
and watch, come they will.
In Gower Street at night you may see a letter-box
that is picturesque: on the Thames Embankment you
may see picturesque policemen. Even Venice is not
always beautiful, nor France.
214
Lecture to Art Students
To paint what you see is a good rule in art, but
to see what is worth painting is better. See life
under pictorial conditions. It is better to live in a
city of changeable weather than in a city of lovely
surroundings.
Now, having seen what makes the artist, and what
the artist makes, who is the artist? There is a man
living amongst us who unites in himself all the qual-
ities of the noblest art, whose work is a joy for all
time, who is, himself, a master of all time. That man is
Mr. Whistler.
But, you will say, modern dress, that is bad. If you
cannot paint black cloth you could not have painted
silken doublet. Ugly dress is better for artfacts of
vision, not of the object.
What is a picture? Primarily, a picture is a beauti-
fully coloured surface, merely, with no more spiritual
message or meaning for you than an exquisite frag-
ment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from the wall of
Damascus. It is, primarily, a purely decorative thing,
a delight to look at
All archaeological pictures that make you say "How
curious! 9 * all sentimental pictures that make you say
"How sad!" all historical pictures that make you say
"How interesting!" all pictures that do not immediately
give you such artistic joy as to make you say "How
beautiful!" are bad pictures.
We never know what an artist is going to do. Of
course not. The artist is not a specialist. All such divi-
sions as animal painters, landscape painters, painters
of Scotch cattle in an English mist, painters of English
215
Oscar Wilde
cattle in a Scotch mist, racehorse painters, bull-terrier
painters, all are shallow. If a man is an artist lie can
paint everything.
The object of art is to stir the most divine and re-
mote of the chords which make music in our soul; and
colour is, indeed, of itself a mystical presence on
things, and tone a kind of sentinel
Am I pleading, then, for mere technique? No. As
long as there are any signs of technique at all, the pic-
ture is unfinished. What is finish? A picture is finished
when all traces of work, and of the means employed to
bring about the result, have disappeared.
In the case of handicraftsmen the weaver, the pot-
ter, the smithon their work are the traces of their
hand. But it is not so with the painter; it is not so with
the artist
Art should have no sentiment about it but its beauty,
no technique except what you cannot observe, One
should be able to say of a picture not that it is "well
painted," but that it is "not painted/*
What is the difference between absolutely decora-
tive art and a painting? Decorative art emphasises its
material: imaginative art annihilates it. Tapestry shows
its threads as part of its beauty: a picture annihilates
its canvas: it shows nothing of it. Porcelain emphasises
its glaze: water-colours reject the paper.
A picture has no meaning but its beauty, no message
but its joy. That is the first truth about art that you
must never lose sight of. A picture is a purely decora-
tive thing.
216
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
1749-1832
Concerning Truth and the Appearance of
Truth in Works of Art
On the stage of a German theater, an oval-formed set,
somewhat lilce an amphitheater, was presented; in its
painted loges were the painted figures of spectators,
suggesting that they might be participating in what
was going on in the play.* Some of the actual spectators
in the parterre and boxes were displeased by this set
and were annoyed that they should be subjected to
something so patently "untrue" and without even the
"appearance of truth/' On this occasion, a conversation
took place, which ran approximately as follows:
The Artists' Spokesman: Let us see if we cannot some-
how come to a little closer understanding.
Spectator: I don't see how you can possibly hope to
excuse such a representation.
Spokesman: When you go to the theater, you don't ex-
pect that everything you see there should be "true"
and "real," do you?
Spectator: No. But I demand that everything should at
least seem to be true and real.
Spokesman: Forgive me if I contradict you and say
that, in your heart of hearts, you don't really demand
that at all.
* Translated by John Evarts.
217
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Spectator: That would be indeed strange. If I didn't
demand that, why should the scene designer go to
the trouble of drawing his lines according to all the
laws of perspective and of painting all objects in
their most perfect form? Why does one study cos-
tumes? Why bother to go to such great expense to
achieve accuracy in the costumes so that I may be
transported convincingly to the period of the play?
Why is it, then, that people give the greatest praise
to the actor who expresses the emotions most truth-
fullywho seems to come closest to the "truth" in
his speech and posture and gestures, and who best
deceives me into believing that I am watching the
thing itself instead of an imitation?
Spokesman: You express yourself very well. Only, it's
more difficult than you think, perhaps, to see with
real clarity how one feels. What would you say if I
told you that no theatrical productions actually seem
true to you and that they seem only to have the ap-
pearance of truth?
Spectator: I would say that you are bringing up sub-
tleties of meaning which only amount to hair-
splitting.
Spokesman: And I will answer you that in discussing
the effects of anything on our feelings, no words
can be too delicate or subtle, and that hair-splitting
of this sort indicates a need of the spirit. Since we
are not at all precisely articulate about what takes
place within ourselves, our mind seeks to clarify the
questions by dealing with them from two opposed
views, answering them from two sides, and, thereby,
perhaps, finding the true answer in the center, so to
speak.
218
Truth in Works of Art
Spectator: Very well. But then, try to explain what you
mean a little more clearly, and with some examples,
if you don't mind.
Spokesman: I can easily give you some, which will
support my point of view. For example, then: when
you go to the opera, don't you experience a lively
and complete pleasure?
Spectator: One of the most complete pleasures I know
of, if everything blends harmoniously.
Spokesman: But if the good people on the other side
of the footlights meet each other and greet each
other singing, and sing their dialougue, and express
their love and hate and all their passions in singing,
fight each other and part from each other while
singing, can you possibly say that the whole perform-
ance or even a part of it seems really true to life?
Or, I might say, that it even has the appearance
of truth?
Spectator: You're quite right. When I think of it, I
certainly couldn't say that it has. Actually, none of it
seems to be true.
Spokesman: And stifl, you are completely charmed and
pleased by it.
Spectator: I can't deny it And I well remember how
people tried to ridicule the opera precisely because
of its heavy-handed improbability and how, in spite
of their scorn, I always found the greatest pleasure
in opera, and find more all the time, as it becomes
richer and more perfect.
Spokesman: And don't you feel completely deceived
at the opera?
Spectator: Deceived? Well, I wouldn't like to use just
219
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
that word ... I don't know . . , Maybe yes, but still,
maybe no.
Spokesman: Now you're caught in a complete con-
tradiction, which seems to be much worse than a
question o hair-splitting.
Spectator: Don't get excited. We want to get some
clarity on the matter.
Spokesman: As soon as we have clarity, well be in
agreement Will you permit me at this point in our
argument to ask you a few questions?
Spectator: If s your duty to do so. Now that you've
questioned me into this state of confusion, you must
question me out of it.
Spokesman: You don't very much like calling what
you experience in the opera deception, do you?
Spectator: No r not very much, but still, it's something
like that, something very closely realated to it.
Spokesman: At the opera, you almost forget yourself,
don't you?
Spectator: Not almost, but entirely, if the whole or
even part of it is really good.
Spokesman: Have you been thrilled by it?
Spectator: More than once.
Spokesman: Can you tell me under what circum-
stances?
Spectator: There have been so many times that it
would be very difficult to enumerate them all.
Spokesman: But you have admitted that you were
thrilled,- and most, of course, when everything went
together harmoniously.
Spectator: I can't deny it
Spokesman: Did such a perfect performance corres-
220
Truth in Works of Art
pond within itself, or with something in Nature?
Spectator: Within itself, unquestionably,
Spokesman: And this unity within itself was, never-
theless, a work of art?
Spectator: Yes, certainly.
Spokesman: A minute ago, we denied that opera re-
sembles reality; we claimed that it presented what
it was imitating in a way that did not at all have the
appearance of truth. Can we, however, deny that it
has an inner truth which arises from its character-
istics as a work of art?
Spectator: If an opera is good, it really creates its own
little world, in which everything happens according
to certain laws; a world which must be judged by
its own laws and felt according to its own character-
istics.
Spokesman: Shouldn't we draw the conclusion, then,
that truth in Nature and truth in Art are quite dif-
ferent things and that the artist should in no way
strive to make his creation seem to be a work of
nature?
Spectator: But it does seem to us so often to be a work
of nature.
Spokesman: That is true, too. But may I be quite open
and frank with you?
Spectator: Why not? After all, we are not engaged in
paying compliments to each other.
Spokesman: Then I will be bold enough to say that a
work of art can seem to be a work of nature only
to the most uneducated spectator, and such a spec-
tator, even if he is only at the most rudimentary stage,
is also very valuable to the artist Unfortunately,
221
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
though, such a person will be satisfied with the artist
only as long as he plays down to him; he will never
try to raise himself to the level of the true artist,
when the latter, driven on by his genius, begins to
perfect his work to the fullest extent.
Spectator: That sounds rather strange, but it's conceiv-
able.
Spokesman: You wouldn't like to hear it if you yourself
hadn't already reached a higher level of apprecia-
tion.
Spectator: Well, let me now try to put some order in
what we've been discussing and try to make some
progress. Let me be the questioner now.
Spokesman: I would prefer you to be.
Spectator: A work of art, you say, can seem like a work
of nature only to an uneducated person.
Spokesman: You must remember about the bird that
flew in to eat the cherries from the painting of a
great master.
Spectator: Well, doesn't that prove that the fruit was
surperbly painted?
Spokesman: Not at all! It proves to me, much more,
that these admirers were real sparrows.
Spectator: Nevertheless, I can't help feeling that such
a painting must be really excellent.
Spokesman: Shall I tell you a more recent story?
Spectator: I usually prefer to listen to a story rather
than to pure reasoning.
Spokesman: A great natural scientist had among his
household pets a monkey. One day, the monkey
disappeared; after a long search, he finally found the
animal in the library. There sat the monkey on the
floor; he had spread all around him the engravings
222
Truth in Works of Art
of an unbound work on natural science. Astonished
by this apparently eager scholarship on the part of
his pet, the master came nearer and saw to his
amazement and to his regret that the monkey, who
loved nibbling at things, had dined off the whole
collection of beetles and bugs he had found pictured
in the book,
Spectator: The story is certainly quite funny.
Spokesman: And pertinent as well, I hope. You
wouldn't place these colored engravings of beetles on
a par with the picture of the great master, would
you?
Spectator: Not very easily. No.
Spokesman: And you would include the monkey among
the uneducated amateurs?
Spectator: Yes, indeed; and among the greedy ones,
as well. But you have given me a curious idea. Isn't
it just for this reason that the uneducated amateur
demands that a work of art be like nature, so that
he can absorb it only in a "natural," often crude and
vulgar way?
Spokesman: I agree with you completely.
Spectator: And for this reason, you claim that an artist
lowers himself if he aims only at achieving this
effect.
Spokesman: Precisely.
Spectator: But I still feel that there is some sort of
contradiction here. You have already done me the
honor of including me among the half-educated
amateurs of art.
Spokesman: Among the amateurs who are on the way
to becoming connoisseurs.
223
Joliann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Spectator: Well, tell me then: why is it that a great
work of art also seems to be a work of nature?
Spokesman: Because it appeals to your higher nature,
because it is surpra-natural but not "extra-natural."
A perfect work of art is a product of the human spirit
and in this sense it is also a work of nature. But to
the extent that separate parts are brought together
in a unified whole, wherein the most minute and
ordinary objects are given meaning and dignity, the
work is greater than nature. It must be conceived by
a man whose spirit is harmonious and educated; this
artist then finds the ideal material, the stuff which is
complete in itself, according to his own nature.
The ordinary amateur has no conception of this; he
treats a work of art as he does any object he might
come across in the market place; but the true
amateur sees not only the truth of the objects pre-
sented, but also the superior qualities of what has
been chosen, the cleverness with which they have
been fitted together, the supra-natural qualities of
a little world of art; he feels that he must lift himself
to the point of view of the artist in order to enjoy
the work; he feels that he must compose his dis-
tracted life, live with and come to know a work of art,
regard it frequently, and thereby heighten the value
and quality of his own existence.
Spectator: Good, my friend. I have had very similar
feelings in regard to paintings and theater perform-
ances and other forms of poetical expression, and I
have had a vague idea of what you are asking of the
true amateur. In the future, I shall try to be even
more attentive to myself and to the works of art; if
I remember correctly, though, we have digressed a
224
Truth in Works of Ait
long ways from our point of departure. You wanted
to convince me that I should tolerate the painted
human figures on the stage set of our opera house.
And even though we have come to an agreement
about these other ideas, I still don't see how you can
defend the license of these painted figures or how
you intend me to understand them.
Spokesman: Fortunately, the opera is going to be
repeated tonight, and you certainly won't want to miss
it, will you?
Spectator: By no means.
Spokesman: And the painted figures?
Spectator: Well, they won't scare me off, because I
consider myself a little better than a sparrow.
Spokesman: I hope that a mutual interest will bring us
together again soon.
WORLD LITERATURE
It is very clear that for some time now, the efforts of
the best poets and esthetic writers have been directed
toward the universally human. In every field, whether
it be historical., mythological, legendary or more or
less arbitrarily chosen, one can see more and more
the universal shining through the national or the
personal.
A similar spirit is to be found in practical, everyday
life, and it diffuses a softening effect upon all the
earthy crudity, savagery, cruelty, falseness, self-interest
and mendacity around us; but, of course, one cannot
hope that a period of general world peace is beginning,
but, still, that unavoidable conflict will become less
intense, war less horrible, and victories less arrogant.
225
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
What points this way in the poetry of all nations
this it is that the others should make part of them-
selves. One must come to know the special character-
istics of a country in order to accept them and precisely
thereby, to deal with a country; the distinctive quali-
ties of a nation are like their language and money
mints: they make interchange easier; in fact, they are
essential for any interchanges whatsoever.
A genuine, universal tolerance can be most surely
achieved if one accepts the distinctive characteristics
of single individuals and of peoples, keeping in mind
the conviction that the really valuable qualities belong
to mankind in general. The Germans have already
contributed for a long time to such a mediation be-
tween peoples and toward a mutual recognition. He
who understands the German language and studies it,
is really in the world market, where all nations offer
their wares, and he plays the role of interpreter,
thereby enriching himself, as well.
And one should regard every "translator" in this
way, in that he seeks to be an intermediary of this
general spiritual "commerce," and makes it his busi-
ness to foster and encourage mutual exchange. For,
whatever one may say against the awkwardness and
inadequacy of a translation, it remains, nevertheless,
one of the most important and worthiest occupations
in the general field of world relations.
The Koran says: "God gave every people a prophet
in their own language." And every translator is a
prophet among his own people. Luther's translation
of the Bible has had the greatest possible effect, even
if the critics continue to make reservations about it
and complain to this very day. And what is the whole
226
World Literature
enormous task of the Bible Society if it is not to make
the Holy Book available to every people, in their own
language and manner?
If now, with the ever increasing speed of communi-
cation, such a world literature is inevitable and will
soon be created, we could not expect of it, however,
more or anything different than what it can and does
provide.
No matter how wide and distant the wide world
may be, it remains always an extended homeland; and,
precisely considered, it can produce no more than
what an individual land contributes to it; what inter-
ests the masses will be limitlessly broadened and
extended, and, as we already observe, will find re-
sponse in all zones and areas; this will not be generally
true for the serious and really skillful artist; neverthe-
less, those who have dedicated themselves to higher
things and to the production of works of higher value,
will come to know each other better and more quickly.
Throughout the whole world there are such men, who
deeply concerned with the established works, and,
consequently, with the true progress of mankind. But
the road which they follow, the pace which they
establish, are not for everyone; the men of action want
progress to be more rapid and therefore refuse to
accept, and they even obstruct, the very advances
which might foster their own progress and interests.
The people of serious purpose must therefore create
a quiet, modest "community" among themselves, for
it would be futile to try to oppose the broad stream
of public opinion; but they must stand courageously
by their opinions, until the stream will have quieted
down.
227
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
The chief consolation of such menindeed, the
most cheering encouragement must be found in the
fact that the True is also actually the most useful;
when they discover the connection between the two,
themselves, and can demonstrate and indicate this in-
fluence in lively fashion, then they will not fail to influ-
ence men most persuasively for many years to come.
Excerpts from
TRAVEL YEARS OF WILHELM MEISTER
For all living, for all doing, for all art, one must first
have professional training, and it can be achieved only
through limitation. To know and practise one thing
well gives one a higher level of culture than a half-
fcaowledge of hundreds of things. In the school where
I am taking you now, they have separated all the
activities; a student is tested at every step; and in this
way, they can recognize the direction in which his
natural talents move him; even though, in the process,
his diffused wishes may cause him to turn to a variety
of matters. But wise teachers give youth a rather free
hand to find what suits their natures; they simply
shorten the detours through which a person is all too
easily inclined to wander.
Approaching the buildings of the school, the travel-
lers hear the singing of the students. Their guide
explains the special importance given to music and
singing in the school. ( ed. note. )
"In our school, singing is the first step in education;
everything else ties up with it and is at first taught
through the activity of singing. The simplest pleasure
as well as the simplest lessons are made livelier and
228
Travel Years of Wilhelm Meister
impressive through the use of song; indeed, even the
simplest elements of religious or moral teaching that
we include are communicated through song; other
advantages for the development of active skills follow
logically: for, when the children practice, we teach
them to write the notes on the blackboard and then to
sing back the notes that they have written and to read
the texts of the songs as well; in this way, they simul-
taneously exercise their hands and ears and eyes, and
make quicker progress in learning to write well than
you would think possible; and since all of this music
must be sung in precise measures and notated with
exactitude, the children grasp the great importance of
the science of measuring and reckoning much more
rapidly than in any other way. For this reason, we
have chosen music from among many other possible
subjects as the first medium of education, because
from it, paths lead out in all directions."
Wilhelm, interested in learning more, did not con-
ceal his amazement that he could hear no instrumental
music. That field is not at all neglected," his com-
panion answered, ""but it is carried on in another
area ... in a little valley nearby; and over there,
care is taken that instruction on different instruments
is given in separate little settlements. And beginners,
with their sour notes, are assigned to isolated hermit-
ages, where they wiH drive no one out of their minds;
because, you must admit that in comfortable, bour-
geois living conditions, there is scarcely a more dismal
misery to put up with than to have a beginning flutist
or violinist in the neighborhood/*
One of his guides explains a central purpose of
education, (ed. note.)
229
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
"Well-born, healthy children," he continued, "bring
a great deal with them into life; Nature has already
given them, for the most part, everything that they
may need in the long run; it is our duty to develop
these natural gifts, but quite often they develop better
by themselves. But there is one thing that no one
brings with him into the worldand yet it is that very
quality which is all-essential for a person to become
a real human being. If you know what I mean, say it."
Wilhelm thought for a minute and then shook his
head. After another short silence, his companion said:
"Respect!" Wilhelm looked surprised. "Respect in the
sense of awe," his companion repeated. "Everyone
lacks it to begin with; even you yourself."
The headmaster of the school explains one of the
general philosophical and social aims of education,
(ed. note.)
"We do not wish to detract from the praise due and
given to the sanctity of home and family; self-confi-
dence in the individual is based upon it, and firmness
of character and dignity grow from it; but it no longer
goes far enough; we must grasp the conception of
world sanctity; we must broaden the horizon of our
human interests in practical relationships and not only
seek to help our neighbor but to include all of man-
kind.
Concerning the importance of learning foreign lan-
guages, (ed. note.)
"We were influenced in arranging our practise of
languages by the fact that we have here young stu-
dents from all parts of the world. To guard against the
tendency which one finds in other parts of the world
of a foreign group sticking closely together and sepa-
230
Travel Years of Wilhelm Meister
rating from groups from other nations, we seek to
bring them Into a closer understanding through the
simple medium of learning each other's languages.
"A general training in different languages, however,
is most necessary, because any foreigner likes to be
able not only to converse a little in the familiar expres-
sions of his own language in a festive market place,
but also to haggle and bargain easily. To avoid a
harmful sort of Babylonian confusion of tongues, a
single language is spoken by everyone each month
throughout the year, in keeping with the principle that
no one should worry his mind about anything except
the subjects especially chosen."
Concerning genius, (ed. note.)
"What seems to justify our severe demands and
strict regulations is the fact that precisely the genius,
the individual with natural born talent, is the first to
comprehend them and the most willing to follow them.
Only those with little talent would like to present their
limited specialty as an absolute whole and they justify
their maladroit efforts under the pretense of indisput-
able originality and independence. We do not allow
this and we seek to protect a student from such false
paths, whereby the greater part of his life or some-
times all his life may be confused or dissipated.
"We prefer above all to deal with a genius, for he
is blessed by a good spirit, which enables him to recog-
nize early what is useful to him. He understands that
art is called art precisely because it is not nature."
281
ALBERT BASSERMANN,
1867-1951. These short pieces
are a tribute to one of the
greatest actors of all time.
Do You Know Albert Bassermann?
It seems that posterity, which, according to Goethe
has no flowers for the actor ("Dem Mimen flicht die
Nachwelt keine Krauze"), will make an exception for
Albert Bassermann. Several biographies are being writ-
ten to preserve for posterity tihe memory of this actor
whom a New York critic called the greatest of all times.
People have often wondered why he never gave a
party or attended one. Even official festivities in his
honor had to take place in his absence. When, for in-
stance, the city of Mannheim resolved to bestow upon
him its honorary freedom, he wrote that as much as he
appreciated this honor he could not accept it if his per-
sonal attendance was required. The explanation of this
strict privacy was as simple as it was beautiful. It was
his ideal concept of marriage. Husband and wife were,
during forty-four years, never separated for a single
day.
For Else Bassermann he was both a child and a sage;
for him she was a Cosima, but of a rather more cheer-
ful than tragic kind. Wherever Bassermann, his wife
and their daughter lived, they built themselves their
own fancy world, peopled by imaginary children to
whom Bassermann gave names "Jenny,** "the Spring
232
Do You Know Albert Bassermann?
Child," or "Hobbelbobbel," as the last one of them
was called. These children shared the family life and,
by their invisible presence, helped to make daily life
cheerful.
Mrs. Else Bassermann recently described, in a talk
at Buehlerhoehe, a "normal day" with Bassermann.
It is characteristic that no place was mentioned in
this moving report. The Bassermanns were as much
at home in New York as in Zurich, Berlin, or London.
If one remembers Bassermann as the grand seigneur
among the actors of the world, one essential trait of
his nature seems to contradict such a characterization
his cheerfulness. Whenever he awoke in the morning
he started the day by singing "Holldrioho/ 7 so that
hotel personnel often believed him to be a singer.
When his bath was ready, he always liked to have it
announced with "Bad is ferrtig, Henx," a remem-
brance of an incident in Budapest, which amused Tifm
again and again. He had that quality that one finds
only in simple people and in geniuses: he was able to
really enjoy the slightest things.
It may seem strange that Bassermann was a great
movie fan. In every town where the little family Bass-
ermann stayed, the visit to the cinema was an impor-
tant item on the daily agenda. For he always wanted
seats in the middle of the first row, and since these
cheap seats are not numbered, it was necessary to buy
the tickets early and to come on time. In such movie
theaters he was not Albert Bassermann but **HobbeI-
bobbel," the naughty child of his fantasy, who first
whined and wanted to go home because the film had
not yet started, but later was the most interested spec-
tator. By the way, Bassermann never depreciated an-
233
Albert Bassermansi
other actor; he had a good word even for the worst
actor.
His own career was not accomplished without end-
less work. To be able to play his roles in English he
studied even in his seventies and solved innumerable
English crossword puzzles.
It was his uncle, August Bassermann, who had
evoked the love of theatre in his youth. August Basser-
mann had been a cavalry officer before he became an
actor and later intendant of the grandducal theatre at
Mannheim. The fifteen years during which he was the
director of this theatre belong to its most splendid
times. He had a beautiful voice, and he predicted to
his nephew that he would never succeed on the stage
"with his hoarse and shaky voice," a prophecy later
strongly contradicted by life. In spite of it, Albert
Bassermann tried to become an actor, but not by way
of a dramatic school. He started at the theatres of
Heidelberg, Meiningen, and Bern. His rapid ascent to
fame began in Berlin.
The cheerful pride he took in his success, besides
his cultivated modesty, showed for instance in an im-
provisation he inserted in his role as theatre director
Striese in "The Rape of the Sabine Women." He asked
a young actor wanting to join the troupe: "Do you
know Albert Bassermann? I am his disciple."
He never lost what he called "the melody of Mann-
heim;" even his English preserved the accent of the
home town in tibe Palatinate, which came through in
all his roles.
He came from a family that was so strongly con-
nected with the history of Mannheim as scarcely any.
other one and that produced eminent persons in vari-
234
Do You Know Albert Bassermann?
ous elds: merchants, artists, scholars, musicians, poli-
ticians. The father of his grandmother, Gabriele, was
mayor of the city. The tomb of the family in the
Mannheim cemetery is, with its widely ramified family
tree, a symbol of the manifold activity of the Basser-
manns.
Mrs. Else Bassermann, the venerable widow of the
great actor, concluded her report at Buehlerhoehe
with the words: "The rest is silence." But this silence
was preceded by the voice of heaven: when at the
cremation in Zurich the coffin slowly disappeared in
the background, the thunderclap of a storm over the
lake gave off a sound like a cello.
DEATH AT THE TEA TABLE
by Madame Bassermann
It was a beautiful April morning in New York.
Central Park was green, and white and yellow blos-
soms showed on the shrubbery. I was sad as I looked
down from our window, for my husband was ill and
unable to enjoy the splendid spring.
The telephone rang and Mrs. Barnowski, the wife
of the former director of the Lessing Theatre in Berlin,
asked whether she and her husband could come in the
afternoon; they intended to return to Germany and
her husband had acquired a "hit," a comedy with a
superb role for my husband "Don Juan and the
Devil.** I agreed at once and told my husband. A
shadow came over his face and he asked me with a
small, sad voice, "Do you believe that I shall be all
right then?" I laughed at that and said, "In September?
235
Albert Bassennann.
By then, darling, you wiH be your old self/' At that
he, too > smiled and looked forward to the visit
For the tea hour I had prepared everything, cake
and salt biscuits and plums from South America,
which my husband especially liked. But when Mr.
Bamowski came, I realized at first sight that he was
very ill; his face was yellow and hollow and he walked
with a stoop. But he had dressed very carefully as he
always did, and he took great pains to conceal his
poor health.
We sat down to tea. The two gentlemen were car-
ried away by common reminiscencesan Egmont
evening, and Ibsen and Dehmel performances came
to life again. And they felt young and healthy. The
new plans were discussed, contracts made, roles dis-
tributed. But some one sat at the table whom we did
not see and who nevertheless was sure of his prey:
Death. First he took the theatre director and then his
great actor.
In parting, Bamowski took one more plum and
asked me, "How did you know that I like these plums
so much? Did you want to bribe me into starring
you?" I could not answer because his wife had told
me how ill he was.
When the gentlemen shook hands, saying "Meet
you in Europe," my blood ran cold; I sensed that theare
would be no meeting.
Soon afterwards Barnowsky died, and eight days
later my husband.
236
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